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Diane 

Am  HER,  PRIEND5 


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jlEIHUR  SHERBURUE 

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DIANE  AND  HER  FRIENDS.   A  Novel.    Illustratsd. 
HIS  DAUGHTER  FIRST.     A  Novel. 
THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.    A  Novel. 
BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.    A  Novel. 
PASSE  ROSE.    A  Novel. 

JOSEPH  HARDY  NEESIMA.  A  Biographical  Sketch. 
With  Portraits. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


DIANE  AND  HER  FRIENDS 


MONSIEUR   DE   BALLOV    HAS   ASKED   FOR   YOUR   HAND 


Diane 


her  Friends 


....  By  ..- 

Arthur  Sherburne  Hardy 

With  Illustrations  by 
Elizabeth  Shippen  Green 


Boston  and  New  York 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company 

The  Riverside  Press  Cambridge 

1914 


COPYRIGHT,    1908,    BY    CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

COPYRIGHT,  1908,    1909,    1910,   IpII,   AND    1912,   BY  HARPER   *    BROS. 
COPYRIGHT,    1914,   BY   ARTHUR   SHERBURNE    HARDY 

ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 

Published  October  1914 


CONTENTS 

I.  THE  DEFENSE  OF  DIANE i 

II.  THE    CONFESSION    OF    THE    COUNTESS 

ANNE 23 

III.  THE  WAY  OF  DIANE 48 

IV.  THE  THREE  EXPERIENCES  OF  LE  VIEUX    74 
V.  THE  TWELVE  GREEN  RUSSIAN  GARNETS  103 

VI.  AURELIE 133 

VII.  CELIMENE'S  DIAMONDS 161 

VIII.  THE  REAL  BIRTHDAY  OF  DORANTB....  191 
IX.  THE  SILVER  PENCIL 217 

X.   HOW   DORANTE    CROSSED  THE   RUBICON   250 

XL  THE  AMBASSADOR 275 


2034549 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  MONSIEUR  DE  BALLOY  HAS  ASKED  FOR  YOUR 

HAND  "    (Page  280) Frontispiece 

"  ONE  ALWAYS  HAS  RELATIONS  " 114 

MONREPOS 122 

"  I  AM  ACCUSTOMED  TO  PRECIPICES  " 136 

EXPOSED     TO     THE     INCLEMENCY     OF     THE 

WEATHER 188 

A  LITTLE  CHILD  PLAYING  ABOUT  THE  GARDEN  202 
THE  CURF.  OF  SAINT-M£DARD  FOUND  MON- 
REPOS TO   HIS  LIKING 2l8 

DORANTE   IN   HER    CONFIRMATION   DRESS 256 


Diane  and  Her  Friends 


THE  DEFENSE  OF  DIANE 

I  AM  a  soldier's  wife  and  a  soldier's  daughter. 
It  is  necessary  you  should  know  this  in  order 
to  answer  the  question  which  I  shall  propose  to 
you.  Perhaps  I  ought  also  to  say  at  the  outset 
that  I  am  a  Frenchwoman.  But  that  will  soon 
be  evident. 

I  do  not  think  I  am  at  all  what  is  called  "a  new 
woman."  Certainly  I  love  to  do  what  I  please, 
which  has  always  been  the  prerogative  of  all  wo- 
men. And  I  approve  of  many  things  which  other 
women  appear  to  wish  to  do,  without  in  the  least 
wishing  to  do  them  myself.  If  a  woman  wishes  to 
be  a  lawyer,  that  is  her  affair.  I  recognize  obvious 
reasons  why  she  should  wish  to  "exercise  the  suf- 
frage," as  they  say  in  the  Chamber.  But  I  see 
reasons  quite  as  obvious  why  I  should  not  claim 
that  privilege  myself.  I  have  a  very  sweet  bone  in 
my  mouth  which  I  prefer  to  any  other.  It  is  quite 
enough  to  work  out  my  own  salvation,  and  if  I 


"TDiane  and  Her  Friends 

love  to  have  my  own  way,  it  is  not  through  pure 
selfishness,  for  I  admit  that  I  should  never  have 
discovered  how  absurd  a  way  mine  often  was  if  I 
had  not  insisted  upon  having  it.  All  this  logical 
tournament  about  our  rights  bores  me.  When  I 
was  a  little  girl  my  tutor  once  wished  to  compel 
me  to  prove  that  an  equation  of  the  first  degree 
had  but  one  root.  It  was  so  ridiculously  evident, 
how  could  any  one  be  expected  to  prove  it?  I  went 
to  my  father  in  a  passion  of  tears,  and  he  quite 
approved  of  me.  "Why  torment  the  child  with 
proving  what  is  evident  to  her?"  he  said.  That 
remark  of  my  dear  simple-hearted  father  has  since 
saved  me  many  worries. 

I  have  a  cousin,  Celimene,  who  married  M.  de 
Caraman.  She  criticizes  me  unmercifully  —  be- 
hind my  back.  But  I  know  it  just  the  same. 
Things  done  behind  your  back  invariably  turn 
up  in  front  of  you  sooner  or  later.  Celimene  was 
made  for  M.  de  Caraman.  It  is  impossible  to  be- 
lieve that  she  married  him  in  pure  luck,  for  they 
are  the  hand  and  the  glove  —  which  must  always 
be  fitted.  They  do  everything  correctly,  and 
nothing  which  is  not  correct  escapes  them.  They 
dress  exquisitely  —  as,  for  that  matter,  I  do. 
But  they  never  quarrel  —  as  Raoul  and  I  some- 
....  2  •••• 


The  ^Defense  of  T)iane 

times  do,  amicably.  I  am  quite  sure  they  do  not 
adore  each  other,  as  Raoul  and  I  do.  They  sim- 
ply adfcre  the  same  things,  —  not  most  things, 
but  everything,  —  which  is  something  impossible 
for  me  to  conceive  of.  For  example,  Raoul  has  a 
kind  of  shaving-soap  which  is  detestable  to  me. 
It  is  true  that  I  like  nearly  everything  which  Celi- 
mene likes,  —  society,  dress,  gayety,  all  that  is 
meant  by  that  one  word  Paris,  —  but  not  so 
much  as  she  does,  and  an  enormity  of  things 
which  she  does  not  care  for  at  all.  My  responsive 
scale  covers  several  octaves  not  on  her  register. 
She  sits  unconscious  as  the  statue  of  Memnon  when 
I  am  shivering  with  disgust  or  quivering  with 
ecstasy.  That  is  one  reason  why  Celimene  disap- 
proves of  me.  I  am  continually  sounding  notes 
not  on  her  instrument.  It  isjaughable  to  hear 
her  freezing,  "I  do  not  understand  how  you,"  etc. 
How  can  she  understand  what  she  does  not  hear, 
or  see,  or  feel!  I  am  telling  you  about  Celimene 
because  she  has  taken  sides  against  me,  and  I 
wish  you  to  understand  why. 

It  came  about  in  this  way.    We  were  staying 
a  week  at  the  Milons'  in  the  Vosges.  It  is  abso- 
lutely necessary  that  I  should  tell  you  something 
about  the  Milons  and  their  guests,  because  they 
....  3    .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

are  my  judges,  and  I  think  it  is  quite  as  important 
to  know  something  about  the  character  of  the 
judges  as  the  facts  in  the  case  before  them.  All 
the  trees  on  the  lawn  remain  the  same,  but  where 
the  shadows  fall  depends  upon  the  humor  of  the 
sun,  does  n't  it?  Well,  my  judges  are  of  various 
humors. 

First,  there  was  M.  de  Sade.  I  mention  him 
first  because  I  hate  him  so.  Every  one  fears  him, 
but  he  is  indispensable.  Imagine  the  most  deli- 
ciously  piquant  sauce  ever  invented  by  Savarin, 
biting,  but  appetizing.  No  dinner,  no  house- 
party,  no  yachting  excursion  is  complete  without 
M.  de  Sade.  Amiable  wits  soon  bore  you.  M.  de 
Sade  never  bores.  He  bites,  he  stings,  he  irritates, 
he  makes  you  furious,  he  brings  tears  to  your 
eyes  like  paprika,  and,  worst  of  all,  he  fascinates. 
I  always  wish  to  sit  near  him.  He  produces  a  kind 
of  pain  that  is  positively  agreeable.  Among  com- 
mon people  —  I  mean  those  accustomed  to  speak 
plainly  —  he  would  not  perhaps  appear  so  clever, 
so  witty,  so  entertaining,  for  I  suspect  that  it  is 
because  he  tells  the  truth  so  nakedly  that  he  is  so 
amusing  or  so  hateful  to  me.  But  I  never  feared 
him,  and  that  I  suspect,  too,  is  the  reason  why  he 
once  forgot  himself  and  went  too  far.  There  is 


The  'Defense  of  Diane 

nothing  like  the  anger  of  mortification  to  make 
one  forget  one's  self. 

Then  there  was  General  Texier,  an  old  comrade 
of  my  father's,  who  still  calls  me  ma  petite,  —  one 
of  those  simple  brave  men  who  will  die  as  he  has 
lived,  a  gentleman.  It  is  not  necessary  to  describe 
such  people,  they  are  so  upright.  Nor  is  it  neces- 
sary to  speak  of  Madame  Texier.  She  has  grown 
so  enormous  that  it  incommodes  her  to  move  or 
to  think.  Besides,  she  always  agrees  with  "my 
General."  It  grieved  me  to  have  him  take  sides 
against  me,  to  hear  him  appeal  to  my  father's 
memory  with  real  tears  in  those  great  eyes  of  his, 
which  look  so  honestly  from  under  his  big  white 
eyebrows.  But  I  am  not  so  sure  my  father  would 
agree  with  him.  It  is  one  of  those  things  I  am 
dying  to  ask  him. 

We  were  all  in  the  library  after  dinner.  Madame 
Texier  was  asleep  in  the  largest  fauteuil  by  the  fire. 
M.  de  Sade  was  drinking  his  coffee,  his  cup  in  his 
hand,  on  the  other  side  of  the  mantel.  The  general 
was  playing  whist  with  M.  de  Milon,  Madame  de 
Milon,  and  Celimene.  There  were  some  young 
people  also,  whom  I  did  not  know,  playing  bil- 
liards in  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  or  talking 
with  other  guests  from  the  neighborhood.  None 
....  5  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

of  these  people  counted,  so  I  pass  them  over.  I 
only  remember  that  they  all  seemed  stupefied 
with  amazement,  as  all  commonplace  people  are 
when  anything  out  of  the  common  happens. 

That  Jacques  took  my  part  did  not  surprise 
me.  He  is  my  husband's  best  friend,  one  of  those 
friends  I  expected  to  find  at  my  side,  whether  he 
approved  of  me  or  not,  out  of  sheer  loyalty,  just 
because  I  am  his  friend's  wife.  That  is  what 
Monsieur  Shakespeare  calls  "a  woman's  reason." 
You  shall  judge  whether  Jacques  had  a  better  one. 

M.  de  Sade  had  taken  me  out  to  dinner.  I  was 
feeling  very  depressed,  because  M.  de  Milon,  who 
is  a  great  friend  of  the  Minister  of  War,  had  just 
told  me  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  have  Raoul 
recalled  from  Tonkin  before  spring.  All  the  time 
while  dressing  I  was  planning  how  to  get  to  that 
dismal  place  which  has  cost  France  so  many  lives 
and  millions.  My  thoughts  were  full  of  this  proj- 
ect. I  was  making  my  calculations  while  eating 
my  soup,  and  was  halfway  to  Hainan  before  the 
turbot.  Then  I  realized  that  M.  de  Sade  had  made 
one  or  two  unsuccessful  attempts  to  converse 
with  me,  and  had  finally  turned  in  despair  to 
Jacques's  sister,  who  sat  on  his  left.  Agathe  is  not 
at  all  like  Jacques.  She  is  one  of  those  women  who 


The  ^Defense  of  'Diane 

become  extraordinarily  affected  at  the  sound  of 
their  own  voices.  Every  subject  she  introduces 
immediately  begins  to  bloat  up  out  of  all  propor- 
tion to  its  importance  or  interest.  You  know  those 
people.  They  step  on  every  sprig  of  conversation. 
Finally  one  ceases  to  make  an  effort  and  thinks  of 
other  things.  With  M.  de  Sade,  on  the  contrary, 
conversation  flows.  One  is  either  immensely 
amused  or  choking  with  indignation.  He  sets 
going  in  me  machinery  of  which  I  was  ignorant. 
If  you  think,  for  example,  that  you  have  no  malice 
in  your  nature,  wait  till  you  have  found  your  M. 
de  Sade.  Agathe  has  written  a  book  on  psychol- 
ogy which  became  famous  after  M.  de  Sade  had 
remarked  of  it,  "  O  Psyche,  what  crimes  are 
committed  in  thy  name!"  I  think  she  must  have 
been  speaking  of  it,  for  after  the  turbot  M.  de  Sade 
whispered  to  me, — 

"Why  do  you  go  to  Africa  to  look  for  lions, 
when  in  Paris  they  lie  in  wait  for  you?  " 

Now  this  requires  that  I  should  speak  a  little  of 
myself.  You  will  not  be  able  to  judge  fairly  if  you 
do  not  understand  me.  I  have  always  thought 
judges  erred  in  taking  no  account  of  personality. 
They  make  no  distinction  between  A  and  B,  as  if 
by  any  possibility  A  could  conduct  himself  like  B 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

under  the  same  circumstances.  If  the  circum- 
stances are  the  same,  both  heads  fall  into  the  bas- 
ket! I  wish  you  to  know  at  once,  therefore,  that  it 
is  true  that  I  shot  a  lion  in  Africa,  though  I  was 
bred  in  a  convent.  It  is  not  my  fault  that  my 
mother  died  in  giving  me  birth,  though  I  reproach 
myself  on  that  account,  as  one  cannot  help  doing 
for  many  things  of  which  one  is  the  most  innocent 
cause.  It  is  not  my  fault  that  my  father  loved 
me  the  better  because  I  was  all  that  he  had  to 
worship,  or  that  he  scandalized  my  Aunt  Julie  by 
taking  me  with  him  to  Africa.  You  see,  at  the 
very  beginning  I  was  the  cause  of  scandal. 

When  I  was  sixteen  I  made  with  him  the  cam- 
paign against  the  Kabyles.  Please  realize  what 
that  means.  For  one  thing  it  means  that  in  the 
mountains  of  Africa  one  cannot  ride  as  in  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne,  and  that  my  Aunt  Julie  was 
shocked  that  I  adapted  myself  to  circumstances 
by  preferring  safety  and  ease  on  a  man's  saddle  to 
danger  and  discomfort  on  a  woman's.  It  goes  with- 
out saying  that  I  have  a  good  seat  on  either,  and 
that  I  do  not  behave  in  Paris  as  in  Kabyle.  But 
people  like  Aunt  Julie,  when  they  have  worked 
themselves  into  a  state  of  receptivity  for  shocks, 
are  shocked  at  anything.  Do  not  think  I  am  going 


The  'Defense  of  ^Diane 

to  tell  you  how  I  shot  that  lion.  I  only  wish  you 
to  know  how  it  happens  that  I  am  not  like  Celi- 
m£ne,  who  is  obliged  to  rouge  and  who  carries 
crbme  de  la  reine  and  salts  and  Heaven  knows 
what  in  her  porte-mouchoir.  What  would  any 
young  girl  do  in  my  place?  She  would  drink 
health  and  strength  in  the  air  of  the  desert  and  the 
mountains.  She  would  learn  to  keep  cool,  to  be 
mistress  of  herself,  and  to  shoot  straight.-  She 
would  have  comrades  instead  of  acquaintances. 
She  would  learn  to  dress  a  wound  without  shrink- 
ing, and  to  overcome  the  weakness  natural  to  one 
who  has  never  seen  blood  or  suffering,  without 
forfeiting  the  respect  due  to  womanhood.  Never 
among  all  these  men  with  whom  I  lived  so  many 
years  was  I  made  to  blush  for  shame  or  anger;  no, 
never  —  till  that  evening  in  the  library  at  the 
Milons. 

But  before  I  speak  of  that  there  is  one  thing 
more  you  must  know  —  that  I  fence  —  I  might  as 
well  say  it,  for  it  is  true  —  admirably.  The  sword 
or  the  foil,  it  makes  no  difference  which.  It  is 
quite  important  that  you  should  understand  this, 
therefore  I  speak  plainly,  without  any  wish  to 
boast.  Moreover,  you  may  ask  Raoul.  He  will 
tell  you,  a  little  ruefully,  that  my  wrist  is  more 
....  9  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

supple  than  his.  I  think  it  is  also  as  strong.  Al- 
most invariably  in  our  bouts  together  I  have  the 
advantage  in  hits.  I  even  know  a  trick  which  I 
have  not  dared  to  practice  upon  him,  because  it  is 
not  rigorously  correct.  It  is  not  disloyal,  but  it  is 
not  in  the  manuals.  You  see,  I  began  in  mere  fun 
with  my  father.  He  was  so  proud  of  me  that  he 
used  to  laugh  when  I  touched  him.  At  his  age, 
naturally,  he  was  a  little  stiff,  so  I  began  to  tease 
some  of  the  young  officers.  I  confess  I  took  great 
satisfaction  in  worsting  them,  for  that  happened 
sometimes.  Then  I  begged  of  my  father  to  permit 
me  to  take  lessons  —  that  is  the  way  I  put  it  — 
with  an  old  maitre  d'armes  who  was  reputed  to  be 
the  best  sword  in  the  army.  It  was  he  who  taught 
me  that  trick,  of  which  I  will  tell  you  more 
presently. 

Naturally,  when  I  married  Raoul  we  kept  in 
practice  together.  Raoul  never  disapproved  of 
anything  which  I  wished  to  do.  He  has  only  one 
serious  fault  which  sometimes  annoys  me  —  he 
wishes  to  prove  every  thing,  like  the  tutor  of  whom 
I  told  you.  It  is  a  positive  mania.  We  quarrel  occa- 
sionally, but  only  about  things  or  other  people, 
never  about  each  other.  No  one  except  my  father 
and  Jacques  begins  to  understand  me  like  Raoul. 
....  I0  .... 


The  defense  of  ^Diane 

When  I  recollect  that,  I  do  not  much  care  about 
what  has  happened.  When  I  have  talked  to  him 
he  will  entirely  approve  of  what  I  have  done. 

Well,  all  this  is  what  the  lawyers  call  the  exten- 
uating circumstances.  Now  I  come  to  the  pitce  de 
conviction. 

As  I  said  before,  we  were  in  the  library  after 
dinner.  There  had  been  introduced  in  the  Cham- 
ber some  bill  about  the  rights  of  women.  I  do  not 
know  what  it  was  exactly.  M.  de  Sade  was  relat- 
ing the  incident.  He  is  a  Deputy.  I  only  recall 
that  I  was  thinking  about  Raoul  and  how  I  should 
get  to  Tonkin.  We  had  been  separated  nearly  a 
year,  and  my  head  was  so  full  of  my  project  to  go 
to  him  at  all  hazards  that  I  had  taken  Jacques 
from  his  partner  on  the  plea  that  I  must  consult 
him  about  something  of  great  importance.  We 
sat  down  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window  looking 
on  the  terrace.  At  first  he  had  his  cue  in  his  hand, 
but  when  he  found  I  was  so  serious  he  gave  his  cue 
to  M.  de  Caraman  and  begged  him  to  continue  his 
game.  Then  he  returned  to  me.  I  told  him  that 
Raoul  was  not  coming  back  and  that  I  simply 
must  go  to  Tonkin.  I  was  very  earnest,  and  I  sup- 
pose I  became  excited.  I  knew  he  would  oppose 
me  at  first,  so  I  waited  patiently  while  he  said  all 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

that  I  knew  beforehand  he  would  say  —  that  I 
ought  to  consult  Raoul,  that  it  was  a  long  journey, 
one  a  woman  ought  not  to  take  alone,  that  Raoul 
might  be  ordered  somewhere  else  before  I  reached 
there,  and  that  Tonkin  was  not  a  fit  place  for  a 
woman  anyway.  As  if  I  had  not  thought  of  all 
these  things,  or  that  they  amounted  to  anything 
after  I  had  made  up  my  mind !  I  only  said,  "  What 
is  fit  for  Raoul  is  fit  for  me."  Please  remember 
that  remark,  because  it  is  the  key  to  my  char- 
acter and  to  what  followed. 

Well,  Jacques  took  my  hands  in  both  of  his,  and 
then  I  became  tranquil,  for  I  knew  he  would  help 
me. 

"My  dear  Diane,"  he  said,  "you  are  disap- 
pointed and  excited.  This  is  a  serious  undertak- 
ing. Promise  me  you  will  do  nothing  without 
consulting  me.  Promise  me  to  think  of  it  over- 
night." 

As  I  had  already  consulted  him  and  was  sure  to 
think  of  nothing  else,  I  almost  laughed  at  his  dear 
simplicity. 

"I  am  going  to  Paris  to-morrow,"  he  continued. 
"I  will  go  to  the  Ministry  and  make  inquiries." 

Jacques  and  I,  you  know,  are  like  brother  and 
sister.  He  was  on  my  father's  staff  in  Africa.  I 

....    12    .— 


Tbe  defense  of  ^Diane 

love  him  next  to  Raoul  —  if  one  can  use  the  same 
word  about  such  different  things.  His  emotion 
touched  me. 

"Dear  Jacques,"  I  replied,  "I  promise  you 
solemnly." 

Then  he  kissed  me,  laughing,  evidently  quite 
relieved,  and  said,  — 

"You  are  a  good  girl." 

Then  we  rose. 

M.  de  Sade  was  finishing  his  account  of  the 
sitting,  and,  as  usual  when  M.  de  Sade  is  en  veine, 
everybody  was  listening.  You  can  imagine  how 
entrancing  he  is  when  even  General  Texier  forgets 
the  trump. 

"It  is  quite  simple,"  he  was  saying.  "With 
privileges  go  duties;  with  rights,  responsibilities. 
Madame  Celimene  wishes  the  suffrage.  Let  her 
serve,  then,  in  Africa  like  Madame  Diane.  Of 
what  account  is  her  complexion  when  the  State 
is  in  danger?  Place  aux  dames!  They  wish  to 
earn  their  own  living,  to  drive  cabs,  to  study 
anatomy  on  the  benches  of  the  ficole  de  Medecine, 
to  descend  with  the  latest  hat  a  la  mode  into  the 
pit  where  men  struggle  — " 

"Really,  M.  de  Sade,"  I  interrupted,  "do  you, 
then,  struggle  so  hard?  I  had  not  observed  it." 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

"Ah,  madame,"  he  replied,  with  that  malicious 
urbanity  of  which  he  is  master,  "  when  that  day 
comes  when  in  defiance  of  nature  you  have  pos- 
sessed yourself  of  that  phantom  equality  which 
you  are  in  pursuit  of,  on  that  day  I  should  ask  you 
to  do  me  the  honor  to  explain  a  remark  which 
women  who  have  not  descended  to  equality  are 
privileged  to  make  with  impunity." 

"And  if  I  refused?" 

"I  should  be  privileged  then  to  throw  my 
glove  in  your  charming  face  and  await  your 
seconds." 

There  was  a  storm  of  protestations. 

"I  have  no  wish  to  drive  cabs,"  I  remarked 
dryly,  "but  I  agree  with  you,  and  if  occasion 
arises  I  shall  hold  you  to  your  theory." 

"I  shall  be  at  your  service,  madame." 

"Are  you  sure,  M.  de  Sade?"  I  could  not  resist 
pushing  him  over  the  precipice. 

"Absolutely,"  he  said,  bowing. 

"Bravo!"  cried  M.  de  Milon,  patting  my 
shoulder. 

"Qu'il  est  b£te/"  muttered  the  general,  under 
his  breath. 

"  Un  vrai  fou,"  said  his  wife,  whose  nap  had 
been  disturbed. 

....  I4  .... 


The  ^Defense  of  Ttiane 

And  then  Jacques  put  an  end  to  it  all  by  saying 
it  was  too  silly  for  discussion. 

No  one  paid  any  further  attention  to  what  had 
been  said.  The  boutades  of  M.xle  Sade  were  never 
taken  seriously.  But  I  could  not  rid  my  mind  of  it. 
I  felt  that  something  momentous  had  taken  place 
and  that  something  more  momentous  was  inev- 
itable. If  I  were  not  resolved  to  be  quite  truthful, 
I  should  pretend  that  my  disappointment  about 
Raoul  accounted  for  my  agitation — I  mean  my 
inward  agitation,  for  outwardly  I  was  growing 
frigid.  But  I  will  bare  my  whole  heart.  Besides, 
you  have  foreseen  already  that  M.  de  Sade  had 
seen  Jacques  kiss  me.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  that 
thought  irritated  me.  Not  because  he  had  seen,  — 
all  the  world  might  have  seen, — but  because  in 
his  eyes  there  was  such  a  wicked  smile.  When 
such  an  atmosphere  exists  as  that  I  was  breathing, 
it  is  impossible  to  avoid  an  explosion.  The  only 
way  to  peace  is  through  a  storm. 

The  storm  came  in  this  way.  The  general,  hav- 
ing heard  from  M.  de  Milon  that  Raoul  was  not 
to  be  ordered  home  for  another  year,  came  over 
beside  me  and  in  his  fatherly  manner  endeavored 
to  cheer  me.  Indeed,  I  had  a  great  desire  to  cry. 
One  must  cry  sometimes  whether  one  has  been 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

educated  in  Africa  or  a  convent.  They  all  be- 
came interested  and  gathered  about  me. 

"At  our  age,"  said  Celimene,  "a  year  is  not 
so  long.  Do  not  think  of  it  and  it  will  pass 
quickly. " 

Imagine!  She  is  five  years  older  than  I,  and 
has  M.  de  Caraman  for  a  husband! 

"I  do  not  think  of  it,"  I  said  resolutely,  "be- 
cause I  have  decided  to  go  to  Raoul. " 

Before  any  one  could  express  astonishment,  M. 
de  Sade  spoke. 

"Excellent  idea,"  he  said. 

My  tears  were  dry  in  an  instant.  I  stood  up 
and  confronted  him. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  I  flashed,  looking 
him  in  the  eyes.  If  I  am  to  blame  in  any  respect, 
it  was  at  that  moment,  for  I  felt  the  challenge  in 
my  voice  and  that  he  could  not  resist  it. 

"Because,"  he  replied,  slowly,  returning  my 
gaze,  —  "because  since  the  days  of  King  David 
it  is  dangerous  to  separate  wives  and  husbands. " 

No  one  at  first  fully  comprehended  what  was 
transpiring,  except  Jacques.  He  sprang  to  his 
feet. 

"  Wait, "  I  said,  pushing  him  aside;  "  this  is  my 
affair." 


The  Defense  of  T>iane 

Then  I  turned  to  M.  de  Sade. 

"Monsieur,"  I  said,  "I  have  not,  to  employ 
your  words,  descended  to  equality  with  you,  but 
I  do  not  for  that  reason  claim  the  immunity  you 
offer  me.  On  the  contrary,  I  accept  full  responsi- 
bility for  what  I  shall  say  to  you.  You  have  in- 
sulted me,  and  it  is  to  me,  not  to  another,  that 
you  shall  make  reparation.  You  will  apologize 
for  what  you  have  said,  now,  in  the  presence  of 
those  who  heard  you,  or  — " 

"Or?"  he  interrupted,  with  that  wicked  smile 
of  his,  lighting  a  cigarette  as  if  it  were  only  a 
pleasantry. 

I  tore  off  my  long  white  glove  and  struck  him 
across  the  face  with  all  my  strength. 

For  a  moment  no  one  moved.  Every  one  was 
stupefied.  I  saw  distinctly  the  red  mark  of  my 
glove,  and  I  heard  Celimene  cry,  "Oh!"  Then  I 
gathered  up  my  dress  and  left  the  room. 

As  was  to  be  expected,  they  all  came  to  ex- 
postulate with  me.  First,  M.  de  Milon  and  the 
general.  They  said  M.  de  Sade's  conduct  was 
infamous,  that  I  had  behaved  with  spirit  under 
great  provocation,  but  that  of  course  it  was  im- 
possible for  a  gentleman  to  cross  swords  with  a 
woman. 

.....  I7  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

"Why?"  I  said,  "if  it  is  possible  for  him  to 
insult  one. " 

"Old  as  I  am,"  said  the  general,  "he  shall 
answer  for  this  to  me.  Be  reasonable. "  And  then 
he  began  to  walk  up  and  down,  gesticulating  and 
saying,  "It  is  impossible,  my  child,  impossi- 
ble." 

I  will  not  repeat  all  they  said  because  you  know 
it  already.  But  please  try  to  keep  my  point  of 
view. 

Afterwards  came  Celimene,  poor  Celimene! 
with  her  tears  and  salts  and  her  "No  one  ever 
heard  of  such  a  thing. " 

"Well,  they  will  hear  of  it  now,"  I  said. 

"You  were  most  imprudent,  my  dear,"  she 
continued.  "That  does  not  excuse  M.  de  Sade. 
He  was  abominable.  But  do  not  add  to  the  scan- 
dal. A  woman  in  your  position  cannot  conduct 
herself  like  a  common  scold.  Thank  Heaven,  we 
have  not  yet  come  to  that!  Instead  of  becoming 
a  hero"  —  what  a  nasty  insinuation!  —  "you  will 
make  M.  de  Sade  one. " 

None  of  these  arguments  moved  me.  More- 
over, I  had  not  failed  to  observe  that  Jacques 
had  not  come  to  me.  I  was  sure  that  he  would 
not.  Being  married,  I  know  the  habits  of  men 


The  ^Defense  of  THane 

tolerably  well.  For  that  reason,  after  the  house 
became  quiet,  I  went  to  bed  as  usual,  resolved  to 
be  awake  early.  There  was  no  need  to  tell  my 
maid  to  call  me,  for  I  have  the  habit  of  waking 
when  I  wish  to.  To  prove  to  you  that  I  had  a  good 
conscience,  I  slept  soundly  and  woke  with  the 
sun.  My  maid  was  still  sleeping.  I  dressed  my- 
self quickly,  pulling  on  the  short  skirt  and  jacket 
I  wear  when  there  is  a  battue  in  the  forest  —  but 
without  corsets.  Then  I  sat  down  by  the  window. 
It  looked  out  upon  the  terrace,  over  the  gardens 
and  pond  to  the  wood.  I  was  not  mistaken,  for 
presently  Jacques,  with  M.  de  Caraman  and  the 
general,  came  out  from  the  library,  crossed  the 
terrace,  and  disappeared  in  the  shrubbery.  When 
I  reached  the  spot  they  were  talking,  the  general, 
M.  de  Caraman,  M.  de  Milon,  and  two  others 
whom  I  did  not  know.  M.  de  Sade  and  Jacques 
were  in  their  shirt-sleeves.  It  was  an  open  space, 
across  which  the  morning  sun  threw  long  shad- 
ows, and  I  waited  on  the  edge  till  they  took  their 
places.  Then  I  went  forward.  M.  de  Sade  was 
facing  me.  He  smiled  when  he  saw  me,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders  as  if  much  amused.  I 
admit  that  when  one  has  no  protection,  no  mask, 
and  no  button  on  one's  foil,  one  feels  quite 
....  I9  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

differently.  But  that  shrug  of  the  shoulders  was 
all  I  needed.  I  was  beside  Jacques  before  he  saw 
me. 

"  Give  it  me, "  I  said  —  I  ordered,  grasping  the 
guard.  At  first  he  held  back. 

"Jacques!"  I  said. 

For  just  a  second  he  hesitated,  our  eyes  to- 
gether. Then  he  let  go. 

M.  de  Sade  had  thrown  down  his  weapon  and 
stood  with  his  arms  folded,  still  smiling. 

"Stand  back!"  I  cried  to  those  who  were  ad- 
vancing. "  Messieurs,  you  will  pardon  my  ignor- 
ance of  etiquette.  We  have  passed  beyond  the 
need  of  it. "  Then  I  turned  to  M.  de  Sade  and 
saluted  him. 

"En  garde /"I  said. 

"There  is  a  coat  which  is  not  precisely  a  coat 
of  mail,"  he  sneered,  "but  which  is  quite  the 
equivalent  of  one.  Will  madame  assure  me  — " 

Viper  to  the  last! 

"M.  de  Sade,"  I  said,  advancing  a  step,  "if 
you  do  not  resume  your  sword,  you  will  compel 
me  to  do  with  mine  what  last  night  I  did  with 
my  glove." 

He  stooped,  white  with  rage,  and  took  up  his 
sword. 

....  20  •••• 


The  ^Defense  of  Tliane 

"Gentlemen,"  he  asked,  "will  you  permit  me 
to  defend  myself?" 

Without  losing  a  precious  second  I  attacked 
him.  I  heard  the  two  strangers  protest.  The 
others  seemed  paralyzed,  it  was  all  so  unexpected 
and  so  sudden.  I  think  the  general  was  about  to 
part  us,  when  I  heard  dear  Jacques's  voice  say- 
ing, "I  will  answer  for  her." 

As  for  myself  I  was  too  busy  to  pay  attention 
to  them.  I  perceived  at  once  that  M.  de  Sade 
was  only  defending  himself.  Then  I  thought  of 
the  lesson  of  the  old  maitre  d'armes.  With  every 
resource  at  my  command  I  attacked,  obliging  him 
to  use  all  his  own  to  parry,  forcing  him  back  at 
every  thrust  —  for  he  would  not  reply  —  till  he 
began  to  get  worried,  and  then  —  well,  this  time 
it  was  not  he  who  threw  down  his  sword. 

He  was  astounded.  I  was  tempted  to  laugh  at 
him,  it  was  so  comical.  I  am  not  vindictive.  When 
I  have  had  my  way  I  am  satisfied.  But  I  had  not 
quite  finished. 

"Resume  your  sword,  monsieur,"  I  said.  "I 
have  not  done  with  you. " 

"Enough,  enough!"  cried  the  general,  run- 
ning forward. 

But  M.  de  Sade  held  up  his  hand.  I  had  not 
....  21  •••• 


TDiane  and  Her  Friends  ? 

observed  before  the  little  red  stream  trickling 
from  his  wrist. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "I  admit  freely  that 
madame  is  my  superior  with  the  sword  and"  — 
bowing  to  me  very  sweetly  — "in  manners." 
It  was  a  little  late;  but,  you  see,  after  all,  at  heart 
he  was  a  gentleman. 

Well,  I  ask  you,  did  I  not  do  right? 

No  one  but  Jacques  will  admit  it.  M.  de  Milon 
is  quite  obstinate  about  it.  The  general  shakes 
his  head  at  me  from  time  to  time, — on  principle, 
you  know,  —  and  madame  sighs  without  speak- 
ing. Celimene  had  hysterics,  at  breakfast.  She 
cannot  understand,  she  keeps  repeating,  how  M. 
de  Caraman  permitted  it.  I  tell  her  it  was  be- 
cause I  was  there.  But  you  should  hear  Agathe. 
She  says  it  is  a  case  of  atavism! 

Jacques  has  kissed  me  again,  —  with  both 
arms,  too,  —  only  this  time  in  private. 

To-morrow  I  start  for  Tonkin,  to  prove  to 
Celimene  that  I  have  no  wish  to  pose  as  a  hero  — 
and  to  see  my  husband. 


II 

THE  CONFESSION  OF  THE 
COUNTESS  ANNE 

AN  object  dropped  from  certain  windows  of 
the  Chateau  de  Freyr  fell  into  the  Meuse, 
and  from  that  side,  indeed,  but  for  these  windows 
its  gray  walls  were  hardly  to  be  distinguished 
from  the  cliff  which  they  prolonged.  To  the  south, 
where  the  river  escaped  from  the  shadow  of  the 
cliff  into  the  sunlight  of  the  meadows,  the  ap- 
proaches were  less  abrupt,  the  lower  slopes  being 
covered  with  vineyards.  Still  farther  around,  to 
the  west,  a  noble  wood  of  chestnut  and  oak  rose 
in  steps  to  the  great  wall  of  the  terrace,  their  top- 
most branches  almost  reaching  to  the  terrace 
level.  Even  on  this  side,  however,  the  pathway, 
which  first  skirted  the  vineyards  and  then  dis- 
appeared in  the  wood,  was  so  steep  that  when  the 
Countess  Anne  returned  from  an  excursion  to 
the  town  a  donkey  was  always  in  waiting  for  her 
at  the  Sign  of  the  White  Fawn,  where  the  path 
left  the  main  road.  There  is  a  legend  that  when 
the  King  of  France  passed  a  night  in  the  chateau 
....  23  -. 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

on  his  way  to  Flanders,  four  stout  Flemish 
draught  horses  had  dragged  His  Majesty's  coach 
up  the  hill  into  the  courtyard  whose  stones  had 
never  before,  as  certainly  they  never  have  since, 
felt  the  wheel  of  a  carriage.  But  this  legend  is  of 
doubtful  authenticity,  and  was  repeated  to  the 
few  travelers  who  stopped  for  a  glass  of  wine  at 
the  Sign  of  the  White  Fawn  only  as  one  repeats 
similar  doubtful  tales  of  what  happened  in  the 
days  when  there  were  giants  in  the  land  —  with 
a  "they  say"  and  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"Evidently,"  said  the  Countess  Anne  one  day 
to  Dr.  Leroux  as  they  climbed  the  path  to  the 
chateau,  "evidently  my  ancestors  were  in  the 
habit  of  paying  visits  which  they  did  not  wish 
returned." 

The  cluster  of  houses  at  the  foot  of  the  chateau 
was  also  known  as  Freyr.  A  few  of  its  narrower 
streets  straggled  a  little  way  up  the  hill,  but  the 
greater  number,  including  the  great  square  with 
its  fountain  by  Girardon,  stretched  out  into  the 
meadows  along  the  river,  bordered  by  a  wide 
allee  of  plane  trees,  in  whose  shade  gossips  knitted, 
and  children  played,  when  the  weather  was  fine. 

These  gossips  would  have  told  you  that  it  was 
now  thirty-five  years  or  more  since  the  Countess 
....  24  •••• 


The  Confession  of  the  Countess  Anne 

Anne  came  to  Freyr,  an  event  of  great  import- 
ance at  the  time,  inasmuch  as  the  chateau  had 
not  been  inhabited  for  more  than  a  century.  An 
event,  too,  which  gave  rise  to  much  speculation, 
for  in  those  days,  of  course,  the  countess  was 
young,  barely  twenty,  and  according  to  rumor, 
marvelously  beautiful.  According  to  rumor,  too, 
she  had  lived  in  a  brilliant  world  with  which 
Freyr  and  its  lonely  chateau  had  nothing  in  com- 
mon. Would  she  bring  gallants  and  ladies  in  her 
train?  Would  the  cor  de  chasse  sound  once  more 
in  the  park,  and  candle-lights  dance  again  in  the 
mirrors  of  the  salle  de  bal?  Then,  little  by  little, 
other  rumors,  from  God  knows  where,  filtered 
through  the  town  —  that  there  was  a  count  who 
had  eaten  the  countess's  dowry  in  less  than  a 
year,  some  said  in  less  time  even;  that  the  young 
wife  had  fled  from  her  husband  as  from  the  plague, 
or,  according  to  others,  had  been  deserted  as  soon 
as  the  dowry  was  gone.  Possibly  the  Abbe  D'Arlot 
or  Dr.  Leroux  could  tell  you  whether  the  count 
was  still  alive.  But  as  he  had  never  been  seen 
by  any  of  the  inhabitants  of  Freyr,  and  as  there 
were  no  children  to  remind  one  that  he  had  ever 
existed,  he  was  gradually  forgotten  even  by  the 
gossips  who  knitted  in  the  allee  by  the  Meuse. 
....  25  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

Even  his  name  had  perished  from  the  land,  for 
every  one  in  Freyr  had  come  to  say  "  the  Countess 
Anne." 

"I  think,"  said  the  countess  one  day  to  Dr. 
Leroux  as  he  walked  beside  her  donkey  up  the 
path,  "that  I  must  purchase  another  donkey. 
Balafre  is  beginning  to  stumble,  and  when  he 
stumbles  badly  he  gives  me  such  a  shock  that  I 
have  a  pain  in  my  heart." 

"That  is  not  the  fault  of  Balafre,"  said  Dr. 
Leroux. 

"No,  so  you  have  told  me  before.  It  is  the  fault 
of  my  heart. " 

"Undoubtedly.  What  could  I  say  to  my  con- 
science if  I  did  not  warn  you  against  those  exer- 
tions which  ...  for  example,  I  saw  you  to-day 
lift  that  big  baby  of  Mere  Bigot" 

"The  dear  child!  so  I  did,"  said  the  countess. 
And  then,  after  a  little  silence,  "  So  you  think  it 
will  stop  some  day,  without  warning?" 

"It  is  possible,  certainly." 

"Provided  I  have  time  for  confession  and  the 
sacraments,"  said  the  countess  as  if  to  herself, 
"I  should  not  object  so  much  to  that  way." 

"You  know  I  do  not  attach  any"  —  he  em- 
phasized the  word  gently  —  "importance  to  the 
....  26  •••• 


The  Confession  of  the  Countess  Anne 

sacraments.  As  for  confession,  that  is  another 
matter.  A  good  confession  has  often  been  of 
great  assistance  to  me.  But  for  you,"  he  said, 
laying  his  hand  on  Balafre's  back,  for  the  path 
was  steep  at  this  point,  "what  can  you  possibly 
...  ah,  well,"  for  the  gesture  of  the  countess 
arrested  him,  "if  that  is  so,  why  not  make  your 
confession  now?" 

"There  are  confessions  one  does  not  make  till 
one  is  sure  one  is  about  to  die,"  replied  the  Count- 
ess Anne. 

Dr.  Leroux  walked  on  beside  Balafre  in  silence. 
There  was  sometimes  such  a  mingling  of  serious- 
ness and  playfulness  in  the  countess's  answers 
that  silence  was  the  best  refuge  for  uncertainty. 
Often,  however,  as  now,  the  doctor's  silence  was 
the  silence  of  irritation.  It  irritated  him  to  think 
that  she,  whom  he  held  to  be  no  whit  lower  than 
the  angels,  should  be  tormented  by  the  need  of 
confession.  For  what  could  such  a  woman  possi- 
bly have  to  confess !  And  his  irritation  found  vent 
when,  on  his  way  home,  he  encountered  the  Abbe* 
D'Arlot,  who  always  dined  at  the  chateau  on 
Thursdays,  slowly  ascending  the  path. 

"Why  do  you  seek  to  govern  by  fear!"  he  ex- 
claimed, shaking  his  cane.  "That  the  law  should 


*Diane  and  Her  Friends 

inspire  fear,  that  is  natural;  but  for  religion,  it  is 
folly.  The  criminal  does  not  commit  murder  for 
fear  of  the  gallows.  That  is  well  —  for  the  victim ! 
that  is  well  for  society,  which  protects  itself.  But 
what  good  does  this  fear  accomplish  for  the  crimi- 
nal himself  ?  Absolutely  none.  It  stays  his  hand, 
it  does  not  change  his  heart.  Is  it  to  wash  the 
hand  or  to  cleanse  the  heart  that  the  Church 
exists?  Ah,  that  the  law  should  govern  by  fear, 
that  I  admit.  But  the  Church!  when  the  Church 
inspires  fear  it  is  because  it  wishes  to  usurp  the 
place  of  law,  to  govern  as  well  as  to  pardon." 
And  turning  on  his  heel,  the  doctor  went  grum- 
bling down  the  path. 

Accustomed  to  these  outbursts,  the  abb6 
smiled.  None  knew  better  than  he  that  his  friend 
possessed  the  kindest  of  hearts.  But  it  took  fire 
easily.  As  Pere  Bigot  said:  "C'est  comme  les 
allumettes  —  faut  pas  les  gratter ! "  for  Pere  Bigot 
had  often  experienced  the  doctor's  wrath,  being 
accustomed  to  descant  to  the  habitues  of  the 
White  Fawn  on  the  art  of  government,  a  pro- 
ceeding which  excited  the  doctor's  bitter  scorn. 
"There  is  one  branch  of  knowledge,"  he  said  one 
day  to  the  mayor,  "which  it  is  not  necessary  to 
teach  in  the  schools." 

....  28  ..« 


The  Confession  of  the  Countess  Anne 

"What  is  that?"  inquired  the  mayor  unsus- 
pectingly. 

"How  to  govern  one's  neighbor." 

Yet  Pere  Bigot  was  never  tired  of  telling  how, 
when  he  broke  his  leg  drawing  logs  from  the 
forest,  Monsieur  le  Docteur  had  cared  for  him 
"as  if  he  had  been  the  Countess  Anne." 

The  truth  is  that  while  tolerant  of  every  form 
of  weakness  and  suffering,  the  doctor  despised 
every  form  of  pretension.  With  politics  he  would 
have  nothing  to  do,  and  on  all  social  questions 
was  as  conservative  as  on  religious  ones  he  was 
radical.  His  speech  was  often  hot  and  his  silence 
chilling,  and  with  many  ideas  of  the  day  which, 
like  other  ephemeral  fashions,  penetrated  even 
to  Freyr,  he  was  sadly  out  of  joint.  "But,"  said 
Madame  Leroux,  "he  has  the  heart  of  a  little 
lamb  "  —  and  Madame  Leroux,  while  adoring  her 
husband,  understood  him  well. 

As  for  the  baby  of  Mere  Bigot  it  was  true,  as 
the  doctor  had  pointed  out,  that  it  was  enor- 
mously heavy  for  a  baby  of  its  age.  But  then,  it 
had  such  an  enticing  way  of  stretching  out  its 
hands  that  it  was  impossible  to  resist  their  appeal. 
Not  that  it  enjoyed  any  special  prerogatives.  To 
the  Countess  Anne  all  babies  were  appealing. 
....  29  •••• 


THane  and  Her  Friends 

No  mother  in  Freyr  had  any  cause  for  jealousy 
in  this  respect.  "Ah,  what  a  pity  she  is  not  a 
mother,"  they  used  to  say. 

But  this  had  not  always  been  so.  Time  was 
when  the  peasant  on  the  straight  white  road  which 
divided  the  meadows,  doffing  his  hat  as  she  went 
by,  slender  and  erect  on  her  black  gelding,  re- 
ceived but  scant  acknowledgment.  Tradesmen 
who  had  counted  on  better  times  with  her  coming 
were  sorely  disappointed  in  those  days,  for  there 
were  neither  revels  nor  feasting  to  quicken  trade, 
nor  any  change  in  the  usual  life  of  Freyr.  A  few 
lights  shone  at  night  in  the  chateau  windows, 
and  now  and  then  a  solitary  figure  walked  in  the 
chateau  wood  —  that  was  all. 

How  or  why  the  transformation  came  to  pass, 
no  one  in  Freyr  could  have  told  you.  You  know 
how  marvelously  the  dead  leaves  of  the  dead 
year  disappear,  how  little  by  little  the  naked 
branches  take  on  those  faint  colors  which  herald 
the  spring;  and  then,  after  days  of  alternate  sun 
and  cold,  and  delays  without  number,  how,  in 
spite  of  all  these  warnings,  we  are  suddenly  as- 
tonished to  find  every  bud  and  leaf  in  its  place, 
and  to  hear  the  strife  of  chattering  birds  seeking 
nests.  No  less  wonderful  was  the  miracle  wrought 
....  30  .... 


The  Confession  of  the  Countess  Anne 

in  the  Countess  Anne.  When  first  she  came  to 
Freyr  the  signs  of  a  winter  lately  passed  were  in 
her  face,  as  if  something  had  frozen  the  sources 
of  life  as  winter  freezes  the  wood  springs;  and  in 
her  manner  a  hauteur  and  aloofness  such  as  one 
feels  when  one  attempts  to  penetrate  in  winter 
the  snow-bound  wood.  And  now  the  littlest  child 
sitting  on  the  doorstep  in  the  sun  stretched  out 
its  tiny  hands  confidently  as  she  passed  by,  and 
Madame  Leroux,  watching  her  retreating  form 
as  she  went  out  the  gateway  of  the  H6tel  Dieu, 
turned  to  her  husband  saying:  — 

"It  is  not  the  same  woman  that  came  to  Freyr 
years  ago." 

"The  very  same,"  he  replied.  "Go  get  that 
stone,  my  dear,  which  you  keep  in  the  depths  of 
your  chest,  and  see  how  it  will  shine  when  it  sees 
the  light  of  the  sun." 

Madame  Leroux  knew  very  well  that  he  was 
chiding  her  for  so  rarely  wearing  the  one  jewel 
she  possessed  —  a  souvenir  of  such  happy  days 
that  she  locked  it  securely  in  her  chest  lest  it 
should  be  lost  —  and  smiled.  Then  she  began 
to  think,  to  wonder  what  sun  had  shone  upon  the 
heart  of  the  Countess  Anne. 

She  remembered  the  day  her  husband  had  first 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

gone  to  the  chateau,  and  how,  when  he  had  re- 
turned and  had  talked  for  a  whole  hour  on  every 
subject  but  the  one  which  was  consuming  her 
heart,  unable  to  refrain  any  longer  she  had  asked 
at  last  if  the  countess  was  really  as  beautiful  as 
rumor  had  said.  They  were  at  table,  and  she 
remembered  well  how  her  husband,  looking  up 
from  his  plate,  replied:  — 

"My  dear,  what  do  you  say  of  this  ragout?" 

"Of  this  ragout?"  she  had  stammered,  taken 
aback,  "why,  it  is  delicious." 

"  So?  and  what  do  you  say  of  a  morning  of  May, 
one  of  those  mornings,  for  example,  when  the 
buds  are  turning  silver  and  rose,  when  the  leaves 
are  preparing  to  unfold  and  birds  are  calling  in 
the  wood?" 

"That  it  is  beautiful,  certainly." 

"O  words,  words!  why  not  delicious  —  not 
like  this  ragout"  he  added  maliciously,  smiling 
over  the  rim  of  his  spectacles,  "but  like  the 
Countess  Anne." 

She  remembered  that  day  was  the  first  day  of 
spring,  for  the  windows  were  open  and  the  bees 
came  in  and  out  seeking  what  was  not  yet  to  be 
found  in  the  fields,  and  that  her  husband,  finish- 
ing his  coffee  by  the  garden  window,  had  added: 
....  33  .... 


The  Confession  of  the  Countess  Anne 

"Something,  perhaps,  not  yet  beautiful,  but 
which  promises  to  be  so,  which  charms  because 
it  suggests,  which  stirs  the  imagination  and  calls 
out  to  the  things  in  the  heart  which  are  dying, 
saying  'do  not  die,  do  not  die.'" 

Ah,  Madame  Leroux  had  thought,  she  must 
be  beautiful,  indeed. 

Above  all  she  remembered  her  disappointment 
when  in  her  turn  she  also  first  saw  the  Countess 
Anne  —  a  black  figure,  its  face  as  white  as  its 
white  hands,  taking  scarcely  more  notice  of  her 
curtsy  than  did  the  hound  by  its  side.  And  now 
the  countess  was  an  old  woman,  with  white 
hair  and  a  figure  no  longer  slim,  but  with  eter- 
nal spring  in  her  eyes.  Yes,  it  was  true,  as  her 
husband  had  said  —  some  one,  something,  had 
taken  the  jewel  out  of  the  dark  into  the  sun. 
And  Madame  Leroux,  who  endeavored  to  atone 
for  her  husband's  delinquencies,  crossed  her- 
self, saying,  "God  only  was  capable  of  such  a 
miracle. " 

Of  the  two  men  most  people  would  have  se- 
lected the  abbe  rather  than  the  doctor  for  the 
friendship  of  the  Countess  Anne.  For  the  abbe, 
though  poor,  was  of  noble  family,  having  in 
his  face  and  manners  those  signs  of  race  which 
,—  33  •- 


"Diane  and  Her  Friends 

circumstances  can  never  wholly  efface  or  dis- 
guise, and  which  often  contrasted  strongly  with 
the  brusque,  even  bourgeois  ways  of  the  doctor.  Yet 
whereas  the  abbe  dined  at  the  chateau  only  once 
a  week,  Dr.  Leroux  was  a  frequent  visitor.  This 
did  not  trouble  the  peace  of  Madame  Leroux. 
She  knew  that  she  was  his  wife,  the  mother  of  his 
children,  the  woman  who  in  certain  respects  was 
his  inferior,  but  whom  he  tenderly  loved.  She 
knew,  also,  that  the  other  was  the  woman  who 
in  certain  other  respects  was  his  superior,  who, 
in  the  dull  monotony  of  Freyr,  was  the  stimulus 
to  his  intellectual  nature  as  she,  Madame  Leroux, 
was  its  rest. 

Notwithstanding  their  different  natures  and 
beliefs,  there  were  no  better  friends  in  Freyr  than 
the  abbe  and  the  doctor.  Often  in  the  dusk  of  the 
allee  under  the  limes  they  were  to  be  seen  walk- 
ing leisurely  to  and  fro  of  summer  evenings,  the 
abbe,  his  hands  crossed  behind  his  back,  listen- 
ing, defending,  explaining,  the  doctor  always  at- 
tacking something,  pounding  the  gravel  with  his 
cane.  On  one  subject  above  all  others  the  doctor 
loved  to  talk,  —  the  Countess  Anne,  —  and  it 
was  strange  that  the  abbe",  who  certainly  shared 
his  friend's  opinion  on  this  subject  if  on  no  other, 


The  Confession  of  tbe  Countess  Anne 

was  so  reticent  whenever  her  name  was  spoken. 
For  example,  the  doctor  would  say: 

"What  is  adorable  is  that  she  gives  without 
ostentation,  without  playing  that  odious  part  of 
the  Lady  Bountiful  who  cannot  forget  the  gulf 
over  which  she  steps. " 

"Do  you  think  she  is  even  aware  of  it?"  The 
abbe  would  reply  gently. 

"But  no  discretion,"  the  doctor  would  pur- 
sue, waving  his  stick  aloft,  "no  discretion. 
Only  yesterday  I  said  to  her,  'Please,  please 
discriminate  a  little.  That  piece  of  a  hundred 
sous  which  you  gave  to  that  old  rascal  Gervais 
will  certainly  find  its  way  into  the  till  of  the 
White  Fawn.'" 

And  then  the  abbe  would  remain  silent,  or  per- 
haps, on  the  way  home,  just  before  parting,  would 
say  in  an  impersonal  way: 

"Charity  does  not  discriminate.  Organize 
charity,  ask  of  it  judgment,  reason,  and  it  is  no 
longer  charity.  Such  only  creates  what  it  seeks 
to  relieve.  There  is  only  one  charity,  the  charity 
that  reaches  the  heart  because  it  proceeds  from 
the  heart,  and  that  charity  never  hesitates,  never 
reasons  —  it  gives,  at  the  first  touch  of  the 
hand  on  the  hem  of  the  garment.  The  mistakes  it 
....  35  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

makes  are  only  the  price  it  pays  for  the  immense 
privilege  of  doing  good. " 

It  was  a  day  of  early  autumn  —  the  grapes  still 
hung  between  the  yellowing  leaves  of  the  vines 
—  when  Dr.  Leroux,  his  black  felt  hat  pulled 
down  to  his  shaggy  eyebrows,  came  through  the 
gate  of  the  chateau  path,  past  the  creaking  sign 
of  the  White  Fawn  and  along  the  narrow  street 
which  led  to  his  own  door.  If  there  had  been 
nothing  else  to  mark  that  day  Madame  Leroux 
would  have  remembered  it  as  one  on  which  her 
husband  had  no  greeting  for  her  when  she  looked 
up  at  the  sound  of  the  opening  door.  For  with- 
out even  taking  off  his  coat  or  hat,  he  disappeared 
into  the  laboratory,  a  small  yellow  phial  in  his 
hand. 

She  was  just  reaching  to  the  nail  where  hung 
the  little  green  bag  of  woven  grass  she  always 
carried  when  she  went  to  town  —  for  the  maid 
had  forgotten  the  black  beans  for  the  master's 
soup  —  when  something  stayed  her  hand.  She 
was  not  alarmed,  but,  as  she  afterward  said,  she 
"  felt  something. "  So  laying  aside  her  black  shawl 
and  taking  her  knitting  from  her  pocket,  she  sat 
down  by  the  window.  And  then,  while  waiting, 
....  36  .... 


The  Confession  of  the  Countess  Anne 

recollecting  that  her  husband  had  been  called  to 
the  chateau,  she  began  to  feel  fear,  that  fear  which 
is  just  fear,  and  which,  because  it  is  fear  of  one 
knows  not  what,  is  the  worst  fear  of  all.  How 
long  she  sat  there,  listening  for  her  husband's  step, 
she  did  not  know,  though  the  clock  ticked  in  full 
sight  above  the  chimney  mantel.  At  last  the 
door  opened  and  her  husband  came  in,  sitting 
down  beside  her  heavily,  with  a  great  sigh,  like  a 
man  whose  strength  is  spent.  She  laid  her  hand 
over  his  as  it  rested  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  look- 
ing into  his  face  but  not  venturing  to  speak. 

"I  give  her  three  days  —  perhaps  not  even 
that,"  he  groaned. 

She  stood  up  at  his  first  words,  leaning,  dazed, 
against  the  wall. 

"What  will  Freyr  do  without  the  Countess 
Anne?"  she  gasped  with  a  little  choking  sob. 

Of  all  the  tributes  the  Countess  Anne  had  ever 
received,  this  first  thought  of  Madame  Leroux, 
selfish  as  it  might  seem,  was  perhaps  the  greatest 
and  best. 

"And  to  think  that  I  foresaw  nothing,"  he 
moaned  pitifully;  "that  while  I  stood  at  the  door 
death  should  come  in  the  window  —  that  I  can 
do  nothing  —  that  I  am  helpless!" 
....  37  .... 


SDiane  and  Her  Friends 

The  needles  trembled  in  Madame  Leroux's 
hand. 

"There  is  God,  my  dear,"  she  murmured. 

"Please  do  not  speak  to  me  of  God,"  he  said 
with  a  gesture  of  weariness.  Then  silence  fell 
upon  them  both. 

There  was  a  little  path  in  the  garden,  covered 
with  a  trellis  from  which  grapes  hung  in  yellow 
and  purple  clusters.  Here,  up  and  down,  for  a 
long  hour  the  doctor  walked  that  day,  struggling 
with  thoughts  which  had  never  troubled  him 
before. 

Should  he  tell  the  Countess  Anne? 

Surely  it  was  his  duty  always  to  prolong  life 
to  the  last  possible  moment,  to  fight  Death  with 
every  ally  at  his  command,  even  when  the  battle 
was  lost.  And  no  ally  was  stronger  than  Hope. 
To  say  "Courage!  we  two  will  conquer,"  that 
was  what  he  had  always  said  to  every  patient. 
By  what  right  could  he  say,  "It  is  useless,  dis- 
miss the  physician  and  send  for  the  priest"?  To 
soften  pain  was  one  thing,  to  shorten  life  another. 
Was  it  less  criminal  to  shorten  it  by  taking  away 
hope  than  by  administering  an  opiate?  Besides, 
what  could  she  have  to  confess,  such  a  woman, 
....  38  .... 


The  Confession  of  the  Countess  Anne 

whose  life  had  been  open  to  his  eye  for  nearly 
forty  years?  Nothing.  It  was  monstrous,  absurd. 
Why  should  he  attach  so  much  importance  to 
a  chance  word?  Yet  what  if  it  were  true,  that 
something  lay  on  that  white  heart?  By  what 
right  should  he  deprive  it  of  its  desire?  For  the 
end  was  sure,  the  fight  was  hopeless.  Why  then 
should  he  say  there  is  hope,  when  hope  there  was 
none?  What  if,  after  all,  there  was  God  waiting, 
ready  to  listen,  a  God  of  Judgment,  a  God  of 
Wrath  as  well  as  of  Mercy,  who  would  say,  "In- 
asmuch as  ye  did  not  cast  your  burden  upon  Me, 
depart  from  Me  into  everlasting  darkness."  That 
too,  was  monstrous,  absurd.  That  such  a  God 
should  one  day  hold  him  responsible  for  the  peace 
of  a  soul  troubled  him  less  than  that  that  soul 
should  one  day  look  at  him  with  reproachful  eyes. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  almost  wished  for 
such  a  God,  some  final  Judge  to  whom  he  could 
turn  in  his  doubt,  upon  whom  he  could  cast  the 
burden  of  his  perplexity. 

A  wooden  gate  opened  from  the  garden.  He 
lifted  the  latch  mechanically,  following  the  wind- 
ing street,  heedless  of  greetings,  and  turned  up  the 
path  by  the  Sign  of  the  White  Fawn. 

"How  good  of  you  to  come!   I  believe  there 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

must  be  some  truth  in  these  newfangled  notions  of 
telepathy.  I  was  really  about  to  send  for  you." 

He  pressed  the  white  hand  in  his  for  reply,  his 
throat  too  rebellious  for  speech.  Then,  abruptly, 
without  further  waiting,  a  little  timidly,  almost 
as  it  were  like  a  novice  speaking  of  things  in  which 
she  was  not  proficient:  — 

"Do  you  know,  my  friend,  I  think  I  am  about 
to  die." 

He  started,  involuntarily,  experiencing  an  im- 
mense relief  that  his  task  was  made  so  easy.  She 
looked  into  his  face  searchingly.  He  did  not 
exclaim,  "Nonsense!"  brusquely,  as  perhaps  she 
expected. 

"Do  you  believe,  then,  in  presentiments?"  she 
asked,  her  voice  trembling,  but  very  sweet  and 
clear. 

"They  are  sometimes  not  to  be  disregarded," 
he  said  hoarsely. 

Her  eyes  did  not  fall,  and  she  understood. 

"Thank  you,"  she  replied  steadily.  And  then, 
after  a  pause,  "You  are  always  the  good  friend." 

He  walked  away  to  hide  his  face  and  was  stand- 
ing at  the  window  when  she  spoke  again. 

"Please  come  and  sit  here,  beside  me,  I  am  not 
afraid." 

....  40  .- 


The  Confession  of  the  Countess  Anne 

The  strength  in  her  voice  astonished  and  stead- 
ied him.  Not  afraid!  For  a  moment  the  world 
became  fairer  and  brighter.  What  a  fool  he  had 
been !  Then  the  reality  came  back,  and  as  he  took 
the  seat  beside  her  again  he  covered  his  eyes  with 
his  hand.  She  took  the  free  hand  and  drew  him 
down,  smiling. 

"You  came  to  comfort  me,  and  now  —  now 
it  is  I  who  have  to  comfort  you." 

He  straightened  up,  smiling  too,  something 
like  his  old  self,  and  laid  his  other  hand  over 
hers.  Her  eyes  wandered  a  while  over  the  room 
and  then  came  back  to  his. 

"Tell  me,  will  there  be  pain?  You  know  what 
a  coward  I  am." 

Ah,  what  scenes,  what  suffering  he  had  wit- 
nessed, dry-eyed.  Now  the  tears  rolled  down  his 
cheeks. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Precious  tears,  I  love  them,  every  one," 
thought  the  Countess  Anne.  "Just  drowsiness, 
such  as  I  felt  before  you  came?"  He  nodded. 
"Sometimes  God  is  good,"  she  murmured,  clos- 
ing her  eyes.  Then  she  roused  herself  and  tak- 
ing a  key  from  under  her  pillow  put  it  in  his  hand. 
"We  have  had  much  business  together,"  she  said 
....  4I  .... 


T)iane  and  Her  Friends 

earnestly.  "That  must  not  stop.  You  will  find 
in  my  desk  everything  I  wish  done.  You  will  do 
it  —  just  the  same  —  just  the  same  as  if  —  hush! 
—  better,  perhaps.  And  now,  my  friend,  you 
must  go,  for  a  while  —  but  not  far." 

"Never  far,"  he  whispered.  The  big  tears  fell 
on  the  white  sheet  as  he  bent  over  her. 

She  kept  his  hand  a  moment,  then  released 
it  reluctantly  and  turned  her  face  to  the  wall, 
repeating  under  her  breath,  "Not  far  —  not 
far." 

As  he  moved  softly  toward  the  door  she  called 
to  him. 

"  WiU  you  send,  please,  for  the  Abbe  d'Arlot?  " 

He  nodded  silently. 

"Remember,  I  am  not  afraid,"  she  smiled. 

Then  he  left  the  room. 

Although  it  was  only  mid-afternoon  when  Dr. 
Leroux  knocked  at  the  abbe's  door,  the  day  be- 
ing Thursday,  the  abbe  already  wore  his  best 
soutane  —  for  Thursday  was  the  day  on  which 
he  dined  at  the  chateau.  Few  and  blunt  words 
suffice  for  men.  When,  therefore,  in  his  usual 
courtly  manner  the  abbe  had  offered  him  a  chair, 
the  doctor  began  at  once,  without  preamble. 
....  42  .... 


The  Confession  of  the  Countess  Anne 

After  his  visit  at  the  chateau  it  was  a  relief  to 
speak  freely  again. 

"The  Countess  Anne  is  dying." 

The  abbe's  face  became  pale  as  death. 

"Dying!"  he  exclaimed  with  a  quick  indrawn 
breath,  brushing  with  a  gesture  of  bewilderment 
the  thin  hair  from  his  forehead  with  his  thin  white 
hand. 

"  She  has  sent  for  you  —  you  had  better  go  at 
once  —  she  wishes  to  make  confession."  The 
words  came  with  an  effort. 

"  She  wishes  me?  But  I  am  not  her  confessor," 
gasped  the  abbe,  sinking  into  his  chair. 

His  breast  rose  and  fell  so  violently  under  his 
robe  that  Dr.  Leroux  strode  to  the  sideboard. 
"Have  you  no  brandy?  Here,  take  this."  He 
filled  a  glass  from  the  decanter  of  wine  and  carried 
it  to  the  abbe's  lips. 

"It  is  nothing.  I  will  go,"  he  said,  refusing  the 
proffered  glass.  "  Dying !  Mon  Dieu  !  Man  Dieu  I " 
he  moaned. 

"You  are  not  her  confessor?"  said  Dr.  Leroux. 
"I  thought  —  I  always  supposed  —  at  all 
events,"  he  faltered,  "she  desires  you."  He  put 
on  his  hat  and  went  to  the  door.  "I  am  going  to 
her  also.  This  is  a  time  when  she  needs  us  both." 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

As  the  door  closed  he  heard  the  sound  of  sob- 
bing within. 

Through  the  wicker  gate,  between  the  high 
vineyard  walls,  and  then  into  the  cool  spaces  of 
the  wood  the  abbe  climbed  the  chateau  path. 
The  loiterers  at  the  tables  under  the  trellis  of  the 
White  Fawn  rose  and  touched  their  hats  at  his 
approach.  But  he  took  no  heed  of  them. 

"The  abbe"  is  growing  old,"  said  one. 

Halfway  through  the  wood  he  paused  to  rest 
on  a  wooden  bench,  just  where  an  opening  in  the 
trees  disclosed  the  meadows  and  the  curve  of  the 
winding  Meuse.  Every  Thursday  for  twenty 
years  he  had  climbed  this  path.  Every  Thursday 
evening  for  twenty  years  he  had  sat  in  the  same 
chair  at  the  same  table  in  the  great  dining-room 
of  the  chateau.  In  summer,  after  dinner,  they 
sat  on  the  terrace,  and  in  winter  in  the  two  high 
damask-covered  chairs  before  the  fire.  And  every 
Thursday  evening  for  twenty  years  there  had 
been  three  games  of  draughts  before  he  took  his 
leave.  Now  that  was  all  over,  forever. 

Dying?  He  had  not  even  observed  that  she 
was  growing  old. 

In  the  courtyard  the  great  Dane  welcomed 
....  44  .... 


The  Confession  of  the  Countess  Anne 

him  as  always.  There  was  no  commotion.  Noth- 
ing was  changed.  For  a  moment  he  said  to  him- 
self, "I  dream."  Then  he  rang  the  bell  at  the 
small  side  door. 

Dr.  Leroux  was  in  the  anteroom.  "You  have 
no  time  to  lose,"  he  said.  "  No,  not  yet,"  he  re- 
plied to  the  abbe's  eyes,  "but  unconsciousness — 
that  may  come  soon." 

The  abbe"  had  become  quite  calm  now.  His 
pale,  refined  face  had  become  still  and  his  step 
firm. 

When  the  door  closed  behind  him  he  lifted  his 
eyes.  It  was  not  the  face  of  the  dying  that  they 
saw,  but  a  face  transfigured,  radiant,  the  face 
of  one  whose  waiting  was  at  an  end.  He  went 
forward  fascinated,  bewildered,  by  that  radi- 
ance, like  a  man  who  does  not  know  what  is  to 
come. 

"Sit  down  —  here,"  she  said,  indicating  the 
chair  by  her  bed.  He  took  the  chair.  "  Nearer," 
said  the  Countess  Anne.  He  felt  that  he  was  be- 
ginning to  tremble,  that  self-control  was  slipping 
away.  "Nearer,"  she  repeated. 

He  bent  his  white  head  till  it  rested  on  the 
sheet  close  to  her  arm. 

"Look  up"  —  her  voice  was  almost  a  whisper; 
....  45  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

"did  you  think  you  could  love  me  for  twenty 
years  and  give  no  sign?"  she  smiled. 

A  strange  groan  escaped  his  lips,  and  his  head 
fell  upon  the  pillow  beside  hers. 

"  Do  you  hear?  "  she  whispered.  "  I  love  you  — 
I  —  love  —  you." 

"And  you  are  dying  —  dying,"  he  cried 
aloud. 

"That  makes  no  difference,"  said  the  Countess 
Anne. 

If  any  one  would  know  what  was  passing  hi  the 
abbe's  heart,  let  him  go  to  the  marshes  when  the 
tide  is  full.  He  had  forgotten  his  calling,  the  long 
weary  years.  God  and  the  world  were  swept 
away.  Strength  had  forsaken  him.  He  lay  like 
a  little  child,  weak,  powerless,  before  that  tide 
that  came  so  resistlessly  filling  every  empty 
chamber,  stilling  every  ache,  satisfying  every 
thirsty  root,  till  the  heart,  like  the  marsh,  was 
full  —  and  then,  suddenly,  mercifully,  came 
night. 

Dr.  Leroux  had  hastened  in  at  the  first  faint 
cry.  They  bore  him  away  gently,  but  every  effort 
was  unavailing.  He  had  climbed  the  chateau 
path  for  the  last  time. 

"At  last,"  thought  Dr.  Leroux  bitterly, 
....  46  .- 


The  Confession  of  the  Countess  Anne 

"peace  with  God  is  made  —  and  it  has  cost  a 
life." 

When  he  reentered  the  room  the  countess's 
eyes  were  still  shining.  They  looked  up  to  his  in 
mute  appeal,  and  before  he  know  what  words  he 
was  uttering,  under  their  insistent  spell  he  had 
spoken: 

"  Grief  killed  him." 

The  lips  quivered,  but  the  strange,  triumphant 
smile  remained.  A  feeble  hand  plucked  at  his 
sleeve  and  drew  his  head  down  till  his  ear  touched 
her  lips. 

"It  was  not  grief  —  it  was  joy,"  she  whispered. 

The  next  day  there  was  a  great  stillness  in 
Freyr.  Every  shop  was  closed.  For  the  bells  of 
Our  Lady  of  Mercy  were  tolling  in  the  great 
square. 

Dr.  Leroux  walked  rarely  now  in  the  allee  by 
the  Meuse.  When  his  work  was  done  he  loved 
rather  to  sit  with  Madame  Leroux  under  the  gar- 
den trellis  or  before  the  fire,  his  hand  in  hers. 
But  she  never  knew  what  sun  had  shone  upon  the 
heart  of  the  Countess  Anne. 


Ill 

THE  WAY  OF  DIANE 

IN  August  there  was  no  place  in  Freyr  so  cool 
as  the  terrace  of  the  Hdtel  d'ltalie  et  d'An- 
gleterre.  Only  when  the  breeze  lifted  the  leaves 
of  its  closely  woven  roof  of  vines  could  a  few 
flecks  of  sunshine  find  their  way  to  the  gravel 
below.  At  the  dinner  hour  the  tables  in  the  arbors 
next  the  railing  along  the  river  wall  were  always 
in  demand,  for  there  one  could  see  the  lights  on 
the  bridge  dancing  in  the  water-mirror  and  the 
fainter  reflections  from  the  windows  of  the  cha- 
teau in  the  background.  Even  at  midday,  when 
the  morning  breeze  had  died  away  and  the  river 
had  settled  into  sleep,  one  often  had  to  wait  for 
some  old  habitue  lingering  persistently  over  his 
coffee  and  cognac.  Something  in  the  lapping  of 
the  little  waves  against  the  foot  of  the  wall  and 
the  shimmer  under  the  willows  that  fringed  the 
meadows  rendered  the  busiest  indifferent  to  the 
flight  of  time. 

Under  such  circumstances  it  was  no  wonder 
that  M.  Achille,  the  proprietor,  pictured  to  him- 
....  48  ..- 


The  Way  of  ^Diane 

self  with  satisfaction  the  deserted  tables  of  the 
Cafe  de  la  Regence  in  the  hot,  dusty  square.  In 
winter,  however,  the  Hotel  d'ltalie  et  d'An- 
gleterre  retreated  into  itself  like  a  snail,  and  the 
Cafe  de  la  Regence  had  its  revenge. 

On  this  particular  morning  the  garden  was  al- 
most deserted.  In  one  of  the  arbors  an  officer 
and  his  wife  were  finishing  their  early  breakfast. 
Beyond,  quite  hidden  by  the  screen  of  leaves, 
a  priest  was  sitting,  sipping  a  glass  of  sugared 
water. 

It  was  the  hour  when  M.  Achille  made  his 
rounds  inspecting  the  arrangement  of  the  tables, 
moving  here  a  napkin,  there  a  menu,  on  the  white 
cloths,  making  sure,  like  a  good  general,  that  all 
was  ready  for  the  assault  of  noon. 

Only  in  this  quiet  morning  hour  did  the  Abbe" 
d'Arlot  permit  himself  the  luxury  of  the  terrace 
at  the  price  of  his  glass  of  sugared  water.  From 
his  own  little  garden,  inclosed  as  it  was  by  high 
walls,  he  loved  to  escape  from  time  to  time  to  sit 
beside  this  river  flowing  out  from  the  stillness  of 
Freyr  to  great  cities  and  the  sea.  Perhaps  in  some 
measure  it  symbolized  for  him  the  life  of  the  race, 
or  even  his  own.  For  time  was  when  it  ran  joyous 
and  free,  forcing  its  way  through  the  hill  barriers 
'-  49  — 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

as  in  olden  days  the  northern  hordes  had  forced 
their  way  through  its  valley  to  southern  lands. 
Tamed  now,  it  ran,  obedient,  between  the  stone 
quays  of  the  sleepy  town,  by  the  prim  rows  of 
clipped  willows  as  little  free  to  bud  at  will  as  the 
river  to  change  its  course.  Only  in  the  eddies 
under  the  black  rock  of  the  chateau  was  there 
any  sign  of  revolt  or  discontent.  If  these  existed 
in  the  abbe's  heart,  they  were  not  visible  on  his 
placid  face  as  he  sat  this  August  morning,  for- 
getting in  the  call  of  the  river  the  open  book  on 
his  knee.  Now  and  then  a  voice  from  the  adjoin- 
ing arbor  roused  him  from  his  reverie,  and  he 
lifted  his  head,  listening  for  a  moment,  as  if  re- 
calling vaguely  something  once  familiar. 

"He  is  abominable,  your  Minister!"  The 
clear,  insistent  voice  seemed  to  quicken  his  mem- 
ory, for  a  bright  smile  illuminated  his  thin  face. 
Then,  lest  he  should  become  an  unwilling  listener, 
he  changed  his  seat. 

Crumbling  M.  Achille's  bread  to  the  minnows 
at  the  foot  of  the  wall,  her  face  reflected  hi  the 
water,  her  shoes  projecting  through  the  railing, 
the  author  of  this  explosion  had  clearly  reached 
the  limit  of  self-restraint.  From  time  to  time  she 
threw  a  crust  at  the  minnows  with  an  energy 
....  50  .... 


Tbe  Way  of  TXane 

which  scattered  them  in  a  flurry  of  fear.  She  had 
come  with  her  husband  to  spend  his  month's 
leave  of  absence  in  the  quiet  of  Freyr,  and  he  had 
just  received  a  telegram  from  the  War  Office 
summoning  him  to  Paris.  What  for?  Were  they 
going  to  send  him  away  again?  Such  a  procedure, 
after  three  years  of  separation,  filled  her  with  in- 
dignation. Would  they  never  allow  her  little  girl 
to  become  acquainted  with  her  father?  And  in 
an  hour  he  would  be  gone! 

"Abominable!"  she  repeated,  "and  unjust." 

At  this  reiterated  denunciation  her  companion, 
who,  having  finished  the  feuilleton  of  the  "£cho 
de  Paris,"  was  endeavoring  to  extract  a  last 
crumb  of  interest  from  the  advertisements,  laid 
down  his  paper. 

"Be  a  little  reasonable,  Diane.  How  can  you 
say  a  thing  is  unjust  of  which  you  know  nothing?  " 
The  blue  eyes,  following  the  retreating  minnows, 
smiled.  Raoul  was  so  logical!  "After  I  have  seen 
the  Minister  we  shall  know,  and  I  will  telegraph 
you  to-morrow. " 

"To-morrow,  to-morrow!  I  am  tired  of  to- 
morrow. Three  years  of  it  is  quite  enough.  I 
want  to-day. " 

"Well,  we  shall  have  had  half  of  it  at  all 


cDiane  and  Her  Friends 

events,"  said  the  captain,  who  was  apt  to  be 
literal  as  well  as  logical. 

"And  I  want  to-day  to-morrow,  too.  Please 
tell  that  to  your  Minister. " 

At  that  instant  a  young  girl,  her  face  framed 
in  a  long  veil,  appeared  in  the  terrace  doorway. 
Something  in  her  carriage  and  gray  eyes  sug- 
gested qualities  and  privileges  which  M.  Achille 
had  hitherto  associated  only  with  the  married 
state.  It  was,  however,  to  her  and  not  to  the 
elderly  persons  accompanying  her  that  he  was 
rendering  the  things  that  are  Caesar's. 

"  Would  mademoiselle  sit  here,  by  the  fish-pond, 
or  here,  behind  the  box  trees?" 

As  the  gray  eyes  wandered  from  table  to  table 
they  met  the  blue  ones  at  the  railing. 

"Take  this  one,  I  beg  of  you,"  said  Diane, 
rising  and  gathering  up  her  gloves.  "From  here 
one  can  see  the  river  —  we  have  finished. " 

"Are  you  quite  sure?" 

"Quite,  I  assure  you.  Raoul,  you  are  forget- 
ting your  paper." 

"Diane,"  said  her  husband,  as  they  passed 
out  between  the  box  trees,  "what  possessed  you 
to  speak  to  those  people!  The  English  do  not  like 
to  be  addressed  in  that  way. " 
....  52  .... 


The  Way  of  <Diane 

"  English !  She  is  American. " 

"You  think  so?" 

"I  do  not  think,  I  know  —  by  ten  thousand 
signs  I  know.  First,  no  Englishwoman  can  tie 
a  veil  like  that.  Second,  she  did  not  wear  an 
assortment  of  bracelets  —  nor  furs,  though  it  is 
August.  Third,  she  spoke  French  without  an 
accent.  Fourth,  she  paid  us  the  compliment  of 
acknowledging  that  we  were  human  beings. 
Fifth  — shall  I  go  on?" 

"  Diane,  you  are  incorrigible.  Nothing  escapes 
you,  even  that  which  does  not  exist. " 

She  laughed  —  her  laugh  of  pure  pleasure  — 
and  took  his  hand.  "Come,  we  have  barely  an 
hour  left."  And  they  went  up  the  stairs  hand  in 
hand. 

An  hour  later,  when  Diane  returned  to  wave 
a  good-bye  to  her  husband  as  he  crossed  the 
bridge  in  the  yellow  omnibus,  except  for  the 
abbe  and  a  solitary  waiter  laying  the  covers  on 
the  table  just  abandoned,  the  terrace  was  de- 
serted. 

"You  will  reserve  this  table  for  me,"  she  said. 
"I  shall  be  alone." 

"Yes,  madame. " 

The  yellow  omnibus  was  returning  now,  and 
....  53  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

a  white  trail  of  smoke  marked  the  vanishing 
train. 

"Does  any  one  live  in  the  chateau?" 

"Oh,  yes,  madame,  the  Countess  Anne." 

"Who?" 

"The  Countess  Anne,  madame." 

"Yes,  but  —  she  has  a  name,  I  suppose." 

"I  will  ask,  madame." 

What  an  ignoramus!  she  thought. 

Presently  came  M.  Achille. 

"What  does  madame  desire?"  he  asked. 

"Really,  it  was  not  worth  the  trouble.  I  asked 
who  lives  in  the  chateau. " 

"The  Countess  Anne,  madame." 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  afterward?  Not  Anne 
Boleyn,  for  example,  nor  Anne  of  Austria. " 

M.  Achille  was  visibly  perplexed.  Every  one 
in  Freyr  had  always  said  "  the  Countess  Anne. " 

"Madame  is  quite  right,"  he  stammered,  rub- 
bing his  hands  together,  "only  — I  had  not 
thought  of  it.  You  see,  being  always  accus- 
tomed—" 

"She  has  lived  here  long?"  interrupted  Diane. 

"Oh,  many  years,  madame." 

"And  you  mean  to  say —  How  extraordi- 
nary!" 


The  Way  of  <Diane 

"Perhaps  Monsieur  Baudoche,  the  notary,  or 
the  Abbe  d'Arlot"  —  turning  to  the  priest.  "I 
will  ask  him. " 

"Oh,  by  no  means.  I  am  not  so  curious  as 
that,"  said  Diane  quickly,  becoming  aware  of 
her  neighbor. 


At  the  mentid 
He  looked  for  a  i 
eyes,  then  his  fa 
ward  with  extenc 

abbe  had  risen, 
•ly  into  the  blue 
M  he  came  for- 

The  next  event 
at  the  Cercle  M 
letter:  — 

478 

mpffen,  dining 
the  following 

"Imagine  whom  I  have  found  here!  An  old 
friend,  the  Abbe  d'Arlot,  who  knew  me  when  a 
little  girl  in  the  Convent  of  the  Rue  Maure  — 
before  you  did!  He  has  interceded  for  me  with 
the  Countess  Anne,  who  lives  in  the  chateau  we 
saw  on  the  big  rock.  Who  is  the  Countess  Anne? 
I  do  not  know.  When  I  asked  the  abbe  he  re- 
plied, '  She  was  a  Motte-Salignac. '  What  a  sing- 
ular answer!  Never  mind.  The  essential  is  that 
she  has  invited  a  poor  widow  and  fatherless 
child  to  visit  her  till  you  return,  and  that  she  is 
charming.  As  I  write,  your  telegram  arrives:  'A 
....  55  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

a  white  trail  of  smoke  marked  the  vanishing 
train. 

"Does  any  one  live  in  the  chateau?" 

"Oh,  yes,  madame,  the  Countess  Anne." 

"Who?" 

"The  Countess  Anne,  madame." 

"Yes,  but  —  she  has  a  name,  I  suppose." 

"I  will  ask,  madame." 

What  an  ignoramus!  she  thought. 

Presently  came  M.  Achille. 

"What  does  madame  desire?"  he  asked. 

"Really,  it  was  not  worth  the  trouble.  I  asked 
who  lives  in  the  chateau. " 

"The  Countess  Anne,  madame." 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  afterward?  Not  Anne 
Boleyn,  for  example,  nor  Anne  of  Austria. " 

M.  Achille  was  visibly  perplexed.  Every  one 
in  Freyr  had  always  said  "  the  Countess  Anne. " 

"Madame  is  quite  right,"  he  stammered,  rub- 
bing his  hands  together,  "only  — I  had  not 
thought  of  it.  You  see,  being  always  accus- 
tomed—" 

"She  has  lived  here  long?"  interrupted  Diane. 

"Oh,  many  years,  madame." 

"And  you  mean  to  say —  How  extraordi- 
nary!" 


The  Way  of  <Diane 

"Perhaps  Monsieur  Baudoche,  the  notary,  or 
the  Abbe  d'Arlot"  —  turning  to  the  priest.  "I 
will  ask  him." 

"Oh,  by  no  means.  I  am  not  so  curious  as 
that,"  said  Diane  quickly,  becoming  aware  of 
her  neighbor. 

At  the  mention  of  his  name  the  abbe  had  risen. 
He  looked  for  a  moment  inquiringly  into  the  blue 
eyes,  then  his  face  brightened,  and  he  came  for- 
ward with  extended  hands. 

The  next  evening  Captain  de  Wimpffen,  dining 
at  the  Cercle  Militaire,  received  the  following 
letter:  — 

"Imagine  whom  I  have  found  here!  An  old 
friend,  the  Abbe  d'Arlot,  who  knew  me  when  a 
little  girl  in  the  Convent  of  the  Rue  Maure  — 
before  you  did!  He  has  interceded  for  me  with 
the  Countess  Anne,  who  lives  in  the  chateau  we 
saw  on  the  big  rock.  Who  is  the  Countess  Anne? 
I  do  not  know.  When  I  asked  the  abbe  he  re- 
plied, '  She  was  a  Motte-Salignac. '  What  a  sing- 
ular answer!  Never  mind.  The  essential  is  that 
she  has  invited  a  poor  widow  and  fatherless 
child  to  visit  her  till  you  return,  and  that  she  is 
charming.  As  I  write,  your  telegram  arrives:  'A 
....  55  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

mere  matter  of  routine.  Will  be  back  in  a  week. ' 
Mere!  and  how  nonchalantly  you  erase  a  week 
from  our  calendar!  Nevertheless,  give  my  com- 
pliments to  your  Minister.  He  also  is  charming. 
Your  —  oh,  how  carelessly  we  write  that  word! 
therefore  I  repeat  it  —  do  you  hear?  —  Your 

"DIANE." 

And  two  days  later:  — 

"I  am  happy.  Mind,  I  say  happy  —  not  ab- 
solutely happy.  It  seems  the  countess  is  an  old 
friend  of  General  Texier,  and  that  she  often  heard 
him  speak  of  my  father.  She  inspires  me  with  the 
feeling  that  I  have  known  her  for  years.  The 
abbe  dines  here  once  a  week,  but  in  my  honor  is 
now  permitted  to  come  every  night.  Last  even- 
ing there  was  also  a  Dr.  Leroux.  I  like  him.  He 
speaks  his  mind  bluntly.  The  abbe  told  me  an 
amusing  story  about  him;  that  a  traveler,  taken 
suddenly  ill  here,  telegraphed  to  Paris  for  some 
celebrity,  and  received  the  reply:  'What  do  you 
want  of  me,  since  you  have  Leroux!'  Yet  he  is 
content  to  remain  here  —  one,  at  least,  whom 
that  monster,  Paris,  cannot  devour!  Little  Diane 
plays  all  day  in  the  garden  and  adores  the  gar- 
....  56  .... 


The  Way  of  cDiane 

dener,  who  is  a  murderer.  It  seems  the  countess 
rescued  him  in  some  manner  from  the  police. 
Every  one  adores  him,  he  is  so  good.  You  remem- 
ber what  my  father  used  to  say:  to  be  good  one 
must  have  a  chance.  How  many  have  I  given 
you! 

"There  is  a  portrait  of  the  countess  at  eighteen, 
the  year  of  her  marriage,  in  a  room  which  is  not 
used,  as  if  one  wished  to  put  the  self  of  that  day 
out  of  mind.  I  see  no  great  resemblance  between 
the  two  women.  The  one  on  the  wall  would  make 
every  woman  envy  her;  the  one  sitting  near  me 
makes  every  one  love  her.  But  why  should  the 
one  wish  to  forget  the  other? 

"This  morning  I  went  to  see  Madame  Leroux. 
You  know  I  am  not  curious.  But  between  women 
there  is  a  sort  of  freemasonry.  I  spoke  of  the 
portrait.  She  had  never  seen  it!  But,  I  said,  in 
those  days  you  saw  the  original  —  was  she  so 
beautiful?  For  answer  she  raised  her  eyes  and 
both  hands.  And  the  count?  I  asked;  I  do  not 
see  any  portrait  of  him.  She  shook  her  head.  Ah, 
what  manner  of  wretch  must  a  man  be  that  a 
wife  should  flee  from  him  on  her  marriage  day  as 
from  the  pestilence!  But  all  this  is  a  kind  of 
myth,  without  substance.  One  wishes  to  ask,  to 
....  57  .... 


*Diane  and  Her  Friends 

know  more,  but  does  not  dare  to.  Who  was  this 
man  whose  very  name  is  forbidden?  Ask  M.  de 
Sade.  He  knows  everything.  No,  on  second 
thought,  do  not  ask  him.  I  look  up  from  this  page 
into  the  face  of  the  woman  beside  me,  and  I  wish 
to  know  nothing. " 

"How  industrious  you  are!" 

Seated  in  the  big  chintz  chair  beside  the  desk 
where  Diane  was  writing,  the  countess  had  taken 
out  the  knitting  which  lay  in  her  pocket,  always 
ready  for  an  idle  moment  like  that  of  any  bour- 
geoise  of  Freyr. 

"  One  would  say  you  were  writing  a  book. " 

Diane  laid  down  her  pen.  "No,  only  a  letter, 
to  my  husband.  But,  indeed,  once  I  did  begin  a 
book  —  a  journal, "  she  said,  sealing  her  letter. 

"Ah!" 

The  monosyllable  was  so  charged  with  interest 
and  encouragement  that  Diane  settled  herself  in 
her  chair.  "  It  happened  in  this  way, "  she  began. 
"Before  I  went  to  my  father  in  Africa  I  read  books 
under  compulsion,  at  appointed  times,  as  one 
eats. "  Looking  up  over  her  knitting,  the  countess 
smiled.  "They  did  not  interest  me,  those  books 
of  counsel  and  meditation,  those  lives  of  saints 
....  58  .... 


The  Way  of  <Diane 

like  wooden  dolls.  I  used  to  say  to  myself:  'Of 
what  use  is  a  saint  in  a  cell?'" 

"  It  is  easier  to  be  a  saint  in  a  cell  than  in  life, 
my  dear.  Did  you  not  learn  that  with  the  army  in 
Africa?" 

"Oh,  but  I  saw  saints  there,"  cried  Diane, 
sitting  up  erect,  —  "  the  real  ones.  The  nuns 
used  to  say  war  was  the  making  of  demons,  but 
I  am  of  my  father's  opinion. " 

"What  was  your  father's  opinion?" 

"  That  war  made  men,  that  all  great  qualities 
were  born  in  conflict."  She  paused.  The  window 
where  she  sat  was  open.  Not  a  leaf  was  stirring, 
not  a  shadow  moved.  From  the  little  town  whose 
lights  would  soon  begin  to  twinkle  through  the 
trees  not  a  sound  arose.  And  the  peace  on  the 
face  into  which,  unobserved,  she  was  gazing 
seemed  a  part  of  the  peace  of  Freyr.  It  was  not 
possible  for  such  peace,  she  thought,  to  be  the 
child  of  conflict  or  pain. 

"There  is  some  truth  in  what  you  say.  But 
tell  me  about  this  book,  this  journal  —  it  must 
be  interesting.  Not  every  woman  makes  a  cam- 
paign in  Africa. " 

"At  all  events,  it  is  not  like  Raoul's,"  said 
Diane,  with  her  flashing  smile.  "Imagine,  the 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

day  we  were  married  he  wrote:  'Left  Bordeaux 
at  3  P.  M.  Arrived  Biarritz  7.'" 

The  countess  looked  up  again.  "The  import- 
ant thing  is  that  he  loved  you  at  seven  as  he  did 
at  five." 

"That  is  true,"  replied  Diane,  in  quick  assent, 
"and  now,  as  then." 

The  countess's  eyes  turned  back  from  the  fresh 
young  face  to  her  knitting.  The  audacious  con- 
fidence and  happiness  of  youth!  How  poor  in 
contrast  seemed  any  other,  how  artificial  and 
unreal  the  substitute  offered  by  resignation! 
"What  sort  of  a  journal,  then,  is  yours?"  she 
asked,  needles  and  hands  moving  again  regularly. 

"Shall  I  tell  you?  You  see,  when  I  first  went 
to  Africa  I  found  in  my  father's  chest  books  very 
different  from  those  in  the  convent.  One  of  them 
was  the  cause  of  my  beginning  my  journal.  It 
was  called  'The  Literary  Remains  of — some 
one  whose  name  I  have  forgotten.  But  that  does 
not  matter,  for  the  book  itself  did  not  interest  me. 
It  was  the  title  which  captivated  me.  'Literary 
Remains'!  I  said  to  myself:  'Diane,  you,  too, 
will  some  day  die.  It  may  be  you  will  never 
marry.  You  will  have  no  children,  and  there  will 
be  absolutely  nothing  left  unless  you  also  have 
....  60  •••• 


Tloe  Way  of  THane 

literary  remains. '  So  I  began  my  journal,  and  I 
assure  you,"  observing  the  amusement  on  the 
countess's  face,  "  there  are  some  interesting  things 
in  it.  Do  not  imagine  it  is  like  Raoul's.  I  re- 
serve it  for  great  events  only." 

"Such  as?" 

"Well,  for  example,  once  I  fought  a  duel  with 
M.  de  Sade.  If  you  knew,  if  I  could  explain  — " 

"You  need  not  explain.  General  Texier  told 
me  the  story.  If  I  had  the  courage,  perhaps,  under 
like  circumstances,  I  should  have  done  as  you 
did  —  at  your  age.  And  you  still  write  in  your 
journal?" 

"Certainly.  Why  not?" 

"Sometimes  it  happens,  after  marriage,  when 
children  come,  that  one  thinks  less  of  literary 
remains. " 

"Oh,"  cried  Diane,  "I  do  not  permit  that  to 
make  any  difference.  Raoul  has  added  to  my 
life,  but  he  has  taken  nothing  away. "  She  stopped 
abruptly,  conscious  that  she  had  said  something 
she  would  recall.  She  was  glad  when  the  silence 
was  broken. 

"You  are  fond  of  your  husband,  I  perceive. 
You  must  bring  him  to  me  when  he  returns.  He, 
too,  was  in  Africa?" 

....  61  .- 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

"On  my  father's  staff,  yes." 
"And  he  fell  in  love  with  you  there?" 
Diane  laughed  joyously.  "  I  helped  him  a  little. 
I  believe  I  fell  in  love  with  him  first.  It  was  in 
the  campaign  of  Kabylia.  He  was  to  command 
the  battalion  designated  for  the  assault  of  a  vil- 
lage. All  those  Kabyle  villages,  you  know,  are 
on  the  crests  of  the  hills.  There  was  a  council  in 
the  evening.  Some  favored  the  attack;  others 
thought  it  impossible,  a  waste  of  life,  a  folly.  My 
father  asked  the  opinion  of  each  hi  turn.  Last  of 
all  he  asked  Raoul.  There  were  no  doors  in  that 
house,  and  I  heard  everything.  In  that  moment 
before  Raoul  spoke  my  heart  was  torn  in  two.  I 
thought:  If  he  says  'yes'  he  will  be  killed;  if  he 
says  'no'  I  shall  be  humiliated.  In  either  case  I 
shall  be  miserable.  Why?  Then  I  knew.  There 
came  to  me  a  saying  of  our  surgeon,  that  a  man 
may  be  a  dead  man  without  knowing  it.  I  said 
to  myself: '  Diane,  you  were  in  love  without  know- 
ing it'  —  and  suddenly  I  found  myself  in  the 
presence  of  all  those  men."  She  paused  uncon- 
sciously, as  if  waiting  again  for  the  answer  she 
had  waited  for  in  the  mud  hut  in  Kabylia. 

"And  his  answer,"  said  the  countess's  voice 
beside  her,  "was  it  yes  or  no?" 
....  62  .- 


The  Way  of  'Diane 

"Neither.  He  said  it  was  not  for  him  to  pass 
judgment  on  orders  which  he  was  to  execute. " 

"And  that  satisfied  you." 

"Absolutely,"  replied  Diane,  with  decision. 

"And  then?" 

"  Then  "  —  the  firm  little  mouth  broke  into  a 
smile  —  "then  he  knew  also.  I  am  sure,"  she 
added  presently,  "you  will  like  Raoul,  he  is  so 
straight  —  even  when  he  blunders.  He  usually 
begins  his  letters:  'As  I  have  nothing  else  to  do.' 
How  that  exasperated  my  Cousin  Celimene! 
When  he  was  in  Tonkin  I  used  sometimes  to  read 
her  parts  of  his  letters.  'What  a  stupid  brute!' 
she  would  say.  'My  dear  Celimene,'  I  said  to 
her,  '  if  you  only  knew  how  easy  it  is  for  men  to 
find  something  else  to  do.'"  She  shot  a  swift 
glance  at  her  listener's  face.  Whatever  she  saw 
there  instantly  sobered  her.  For  a  reason  she 
only  vaguely  divined  she  found  herself  again  on 
the  boundary  of  a  zone  of  danger. 

"I  heard  Dr.  Leroux  invite  you  last  night  to 
visit  his  hospital.  Did  you  go  this  morning?  " 

"No.  I  hope  he  was  not  offended.  I  cannot 
bear  them.  The  very  odor  of  one  makes  me 
faint." 

"  But  in  the  army— " 

....  63  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

"Oh,  that  was  quite  different.  Then  I  had  to. 
We  were  always  short  of  nurses,  and  our  surgeon 
preferred  me  to  all  the  others. " 

The  countess's  knitting  fell  into  her  lap.  "I 
should  not  have  the  courage,"  she  murmured, 
leaning  back  hi  the  deep  chair  and  looking  into 
Diane's  face,  "no  —  never." 

"You  would  have  the  courage  whenever  you 
could  be  of  assistance,"  said  Diane  quietly.  "It 
becomes  a  passion  to  save  life.  Courage  fails 
when  one  can  do  nothing.  To  stand  beside  some 
poor  fellow  over  whom  the  surgeon  is  bending, 
to  see  the  surgeon  rise  —  oh,  how  well  I  know  the 
gesture!  —  and  hear  him  say,  'Nothing  to  be 
done, '  —  and  pass  on,  —  pass  on  to  one  for  whom 
there  was  hope  and  forget  the  one  for  whom  there 
was  none  —  that  broke  my  heart.  And  those  last 
messages — " 

"Yes,  that  must  be  terrible." 

"I  used  to  put  them  all  down,  word  for  word, 
in  my  journal.  Whenever  possible  I  delivered 
them." 

"That  part  I  could  do,"  said  the  Countess 
Anne. 

"Yes —  but  sometimes  —  I  remember  one 
man,  in  the  Foreign  Legion,  —  it  would  require 
....  64  •- 


The  Way  ofDiane 

courage  to  deliver  his  message,  —  to  a  woman, 
—  they  were  all  to  women.  We  stumbled  on  him 
at  night,  in  the  field  — " 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  a  servant 
announced  the  Abbe  d'Arlot. 

"  Go  down,  my  child;  I  will  join  you  presently. " 

Diane  rose,  obedient.  Was  she,  indeed,  a  child? 
Had  she  always  lived  in  this  house?  The  illusion 
was  so  strong  that  for  a  moment  she  almost  be- 
lieved it. 

"You  say  'my  child'  as  my  father  used  to," 
she  said,  touching  her  lips  to  the  white  hair. 

The  countess  took  the  hand  at  Diane's  side  in 
hers.  "It  may  be  that  only  those  who  have  no 
child  can  say  it  as  I  do,"  she  smiled.  "But  run; 
you  keep  the  abbe  waiting. " 

At  eleven  o'clock  that  evening,  just  as  Diane 
was  about  to  extinguish  the  candles  on  her  dress- 
ing-table, there  was  a  knock  at  her  door. 

"What,  at  this  hour!"  she  exclaimed,  as  the 
maid  handed  her  a  letter. 

"Madame  said  you  were  expecting  a  letter 
from  monsieur  this  evening,  and  sent  into  town. 
Usually  the  mail  is  brought  in  the  morning.  Good- 
night, madame. " 

....  65  -. 


^Diane  and  Her  Friends 

How  thoughtful!  Yes,  there  was  no  doubt 
about  it  —  Raoul's  handwriting,  and,  to  judge 
by  the  weight,  a  long  letter,  too.  She  wheeled 
the  high-backed  chair  close  to  the  candles,  curled 
herself  up  in  its  deep  recess,  pulled  the  hem  of  her 
nightdress  over  her  slippered  feet,  and  broke  the 
seal. 

"My  DIANE  [for  one  brief  moment  the  hand 
which  held  the  page  fell  into  her  lap  and  the  eyes 
closed],  —  It  is  terribly  hot  here.  As  it  is  Sunday 
and  I  have  nothing  to  do,  I  will  write  you.  I  saw 
De  Sade  last  night  at  the  Club.  Though  he  was 
winning,  he  left  the  table  at  once  to  inquire  for 
you.  The  admiration  he  has  for  you  is  inconceiv- 
able [a  smile  crept  into  the  blue  eyes].  Most  men 
certainly,  especially  a  man  who  prides  himself  on 
being  one  of  the  first  swords  in  France,  would  sulk 
after  being  disarmed  by  a  woman.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  boasts  of  it.  He  says  illusions  are  danger- 
ous, and  that  you  destroyed  the  last  one  he  cher- 
ished. Have  I  told  you  it  is  atrociously  hot  here? 
In  spite  of  all  I  could  do  I  fell  asleep  in  my  chair 
on  the  terrace  after  dinner.  De  Sade  wished  to 
drag  me  to  the  opera.  As  you  well  know,  there  is 
but  one  person  who  can  do  that.  When  I  woke 
....  66  .». 


The  Way  of  <Diane 

he  was  at  my  elbow  again.  He  proposed  a  ride 
in  the  Bois.  We  returned  at  two  in  the  morning. 
By  the  way,  I  forgot  to  say  I  received  your  first 
letter.  It  is  extraordinary,  that  habit  of  yours  of 
finding  friends  everywhere  —  or  shall  I  say  mak- 
ing them?  And  in  Freyr!  De  Sade  asked  what 
the  devil  you  were  doing  in  that  hole.  He  is  an 
amusing  fellow,  and  kept  me  from  falling,  out  of 
sheer  weariness,  from  my  saddle  with  gossip  of 
what  has  occurred  during  my  absence.  Your 
abbe  is  quite  right  —  she  was  Anne  de  la  Motte- 
Salignac,  and  married  that  Count  de  Lussac  who 
was  obliged  to  leave  the  country.  I  cannot  re- 
member the  half  of  what  De  Sade  told  me.  There 
are  times  when,  to  speak  plainly,  he  bores  me. 
But  he  has  a  curious  story  about  this  Lussac  — 
that,  after  dragging  one  of  the  first  names  of 
France  through  all  the  gutters  of  Europe,  he 
turned  up  with  the  army  in  Africa.  Do  you  re- 
member that  man  who  defended  the  priest's 
house  hi  Palestro?  whom  we  found  shot  through 
the  lungs  when  our  relieving  force  came  up  from 
Alma?  Was  not  his  name  Lussac,  or  Brissac,  or 
something  of  that  sort?  What  a  coincidence  if  he 
should  be  the  husband  of  your  chatelaine!  De 
Sade  says  as  a  child  he  remembers  her  well  — 
....  67  -.. 


^Diane  and  tier  Friends 

that  when  he  wore  curls  he  was  in  love  with  her. 
He  had  an  idea  she  was  dead.  Paris  forgets 
quickly.  I  expect  to  finish  to-morrow.  If  possible 
I  shall  take  the  noon  train.  This  place  is  given 
over  to  Americans,  whom  I  am  learning  to  dis- 
tinguish after  your  method.  Every  one  has  left 
town  except,  as  De  Sade  says,  a  few  old  bachelors 
who  cannot  live  beyond  the  odor  of  the  asphalt. 
Kiss  little  Diane. 

"RAOUL." 

Her  eyes  had  followed  down  the  page  mechani- 
cally, because  it  was  there  before  her.  But  her 
mind  had  stopped  at  the  words,  "Do  you  remem- 
ber that  man — "  Indeed,  yes,  she  remembered 
him  well.  His  name  was  Lussac,  not  Brissac.  He 
had  confided  it  to  her  just  before  the  blood  bubbled 
up  from  the  lungs  in  that  awful  moment  after  the 
surgeon  had  said,  "Nothing  to  be  done,"  —  and 
had  passed  on  to  his  work  of  rescue,  leaving  to 
her  the  woman's  work  of  consolation.  For  a  long 
time  she  sat  motionless,  the  letter  in  her  hand, 
her  eyes  staring  through  the  open  window,  with- 
out seeing  the  stars  twinkling  above  the  trees  or 
the  vines  swaying  to  and  fro  in  the  warm  night. 
"What  a  coincidence  if  he  should  be—"  A  little 
....  68  • 


Tbe  Way  of  TXane 

shiver  finished  the  thought.  She  rose  quickly, 
closed  the  window  with  an  instinctive  desire  for 
privacy,  and  went  to  the  small  morocco  case  on 
her  dressing-table.  While  unlocking  it  and  lift- 
ing the  tray  her  mind  went  on  working.  A  com- 
mon soldier  —  oh,  a  brave  one,  a  hero,  but  a  com- 
mon soldier.  She  had  never  connected  him  with 
the  De  Lussacs.  She  took  out  the  red  leather  vol- 
ume at  the  bottom  of  the  case  and  went  back  to 
her  chair,  turning  the  leaves  rapidly.  It  was  easy 
to  find  the  page,  for  the  torn  fragment  fastened 
to  it  bore  a  red  stain.  It  had  lain  next  his  heart, 
and  the  hand  in  its  failing  strength  had  groped 
for  it  in  the  night  as  he  lay  alone  under  the  stars 
of  Africa.  The  handwriting  was  firm  and  clear, 
with  a  character  of  irrevocableness:  — 

"  Some  day  you  will  ask  for  forgiveness  —  take 
it  now  —  I  give  it  freely,  if  only  because  to  carry 
this  weight  of  hate  is  more  than  I  can  bear.  But 
ask  no  more  — for  on  that  day,  if  it  should  come  to 
you,  when  you  will  ask  for  love,  though  you  ask  it 
in  tears,  it  will  not  be  mine  to  give  — " 

And  then  the  red  stain  and  ragged  edge,  as  if 
the  bullet  had  purposely  blotted  out  forever  the 
name  of  the  writer. 

She  gulped  down  a  little  sob  and  read  on, 
....  69  •••• 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

though  she  had  no  need  to.  Could  she  ever  for- 
get it?  —  that  last  message,  written  by  the  light 
of  a  lantern,  after  covering  the  dead  face. 

"Write  it  down,"  he  had  said;  "don't  forget  it 
—  write  it  down,  as  I  say  it.  Tell  her  that  that 
day  is  come  —  and  the  tears  —  tell  her  f orgive- 
ness  is  not  enough  — that— "  That  what?  She 
had  written  it  as  he  had  wished,  word  for  word, 
to  the  last  one  the  soul  had  uttered  on  the  brink 
of  the  precipice. 

.  Her  head  slipped  back  in  the  curve  of  the  chair, 
the  mind  still  working  on.  Raoul  had  always 
been  astonished  at  the  rapidity  of  its  action  and 
the  clearness  of  its  vision.  Even  when  they  had 
disagreed  he  had  been  forced  to  admit,  after  time 
had  given  him  the  truer  perspective,  that  her 
quickly  reached  conclusion  had  been  just.  What 
she  saw  now  was  Raoul,  tearing  the  blood-stained 
page  from  its  place,  twisting  it  in  his  fingers,  and 
holding  it  to  the  flame  of  the  candle  till  its  last 
shred  was  ash.  In  his  every  motion  she  followed 
the  train  of  his  thought:  This  woman  had  ban- 
ished the  past  and  was  at  peace.  By  what  right 
would  she,  the  stranger,  at  the  whim  of  chance, 
roll  the  stone  of  oblivion  from  the  closed  tomb? 
To  whom  did  she  owe  loyalty,  mercy, —  the  living 
....  70  .... 


The  Way  of  <Diane 

or  the  dead?  for  the  peace  of  the  dead  nothing 
now  could  disturb  forever.  That  was  unques- 
tionably what  Raoul  would  do.  Let  the  dead 
bury  the  dead. 

She  sat  up  quickly,  tore  the  page  from  its  fast- 
enings, opened  the  door,  and  started  down  the 
corridor,  a  candle  in  one  hand,  Raoul's  letter  and 
the  stained  page  in  the  other.  No,  she  did  not 
argue  with  Raoul.  She  did  not  deny  that  he  was 
right,  always  tender  of  woman,  and  incapable  of 
a  cruel  word.  What  is  more  lawful,  more  charit- 
able, than  to  deceive  happiness!  God  Himself 
withholds  the  truth.  But  she  also  was  right,  and 
Raoul,  he  would  have  the  truth  at  no  matter  what 
cost  of  pain.  With  that  eclipse  of  every  justify- 
ing reason  which  characterizes  the  decisions  of 
instinct,  she  knocked  at  the  door  under  which 
she  saw  with  relief  a  thin  line  of  light.  At  the 
same  time  her  hand  trembled.  Her  courage  came 
in  crossing  the  threshold. 

The  Countess  Anne  was  reading.  She  looked 
up,  to  see  a  pale  little  figure  advancing  resolutely, 
with  a  letter  in  its  hand.  Instantly,  in  a  flash  of 
thought,  she  knew  that  some  great  trouble  had 
come  —  not  to  herself,  but  to  Diane. 

"I  have  a  letter  from  my  husband,"  said 


T)iane  and  Her  Friends 

Diane.  "I  wish  you  to  read  it"  —  unconsciously 
she  had  crushed  the  torn  page  out  of  sight  within 
its  folds  —  "he  is  coming  to-morrow  —  to  take 
me  away  — " 

" My  dear  child—  " 

"Don't,  please  don't;  but  to-morrow,  if  you 
will  only  say  that  to-morrow  —  please  let  me  go; 
you  don't  understand — "  and  the  little  white 
figure  released  itself  and  vanished  like  a  vision 
in  a  dream. 

Herself  white  and  startled,  the  Countess  Anne 
sprang  to  follow  it,  when  a  ragged,  blood-stained 
page  fluttered  to  the  floor,  and  she  recognized, 
as  in  another  stranger  dream,  her  own  handwrit- 
ing. 

The  yellow  omnibus  of  the  H6tel  d'ltalie  et 
d'Angleterre  rumbled  over  the  bridge  under  the 
clock-tower  of  Freyr.  When  in  its  deepest  shadow 
Raoul  lifted  the  hand  in  his  to  his  lips. 

"Diane,  I  haven't  told  you.  It  was  lucky 
Texier  was  in  Paris.  But  for  him  I  might  be  on 
the  way  to  Senegal. " 

"It  doesn't  matter  —  you're  here,  Raoul." 
He  thought  she  would  be  more  surprised.  Calm 
little  woman! 

....  72  .... 


The  Way  of  <Diane 

The  omnibus  clattered  into  the  great  square. 

"By  the  way,  that  Lussac  — " 

"It  wasn't  Lussac;  it  was  Brissac,"  she  said 
quickly. 

"  Oh,  was  it?  It  would  have  been  a  coincidence, 
though,  would  n't  it?" 

"Yes,  "said  Diane. 

"You  like  her  —  the  countess?" 

"I  adore  her." 

"You  're  as  mad  as  de  Sade.  He  raved  over 
her." 

Silence. 

"You  must,  too,  Raoul." 

He  laughed.  "I  will  if  she  adores  you. " 

"She  does,"  said  Diane  simply.  "This  morn- 
ing she  called  me  her  dear  child. " 

Raoul  laughed  again,  a  little  proudly,  as  men 
will. 


IV 

THE  THREE  EXPERIENCES  OF 
LE  VIEUX 

r  I  SHERE  frequently  exists  in  a  community 
JL  some  individual  who,  justly  or  unjustly,  is 
the  object  of  suspicion  and  aversion,  of  whom 
children  are  instinctively  afraid,  and  about  whose 
life  gathers  a  legend  of  mystery  and  evil.  Souls 
being  governed  by  the  same  inexorable  laws  of 
action  and  reaction  which  reign  in  the  world  of 
atoms,  such  an  individual  usually  repays  suspi- 
cion with  suspicion  and  aversion  with  aversion, 
until  mutual  distrust  becomes  a  fear  on  the  one 
hand  and  is  returned  with  hatred  on  the  other. 
One  evening  of  early  summer  such  a  man 
shuffled  into  the  glare  of  the  Cafe  de  la  R£gence, 
disappearing  as  quickly  into  the  darkness  which 
encircled  this  one  brilliant  spot  of  the  great  square 
of  Freyr.  At  one  of  the  tables  which  crowded  the 
passer-by  into  the  street,  this  black  shadow,  trav- 
ersing the  lighted  space  like  a  night-bird,  pro- 
vided a  subject  for  discussion.  A  young  lieutenant 
of  the  garrison  declared  him  a  harmless  fool.  The 
....  74  .... 


The  Three  Experiences  of  Le  Vieux 

lieutenant  had  a  frank,  open  face,  admirably 
matching  the  light  blue  of  his  cavalry  jacket. 
His  neighbor,  the  linen-draper,  who  willingly 
sipped  a  glass  of  absinthe  every  evening  at  the 
lieutenant's  expense,  and  whose  closely  buttoned 
coat  suggested  the  shutters  which  every  night 
guarded  his  little  shop,  was  of  another  opinion. 
He  pronounced  the  man  a  dangerous  character. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  M.  Surbeck,  the  commis- 
sary of  police,  as  he  laid  down  a  double-six  on  the 
adjoining  table,  "you  are  equally  mistaken.  He 
is  both." 

Meanwhile  Le  Vieux,  as  he  was  commonly  des- 
ignated by  mothers  in  Freyr,  who  utilized  him 
for  disciplinary  purposes  when  children  were  re- 
fractory, indifferent  to  the  interest  he  had  excited, 
having  placed  his  sou  on  the  counter  of  the  bakery 
in  the  Rue  de  la  Cite  and  possessed  himself  of  the 
black  loaf  for  which  he  had  come,  was  shuffling 
back  through  the  deserted  streets  to  the  lane 
which  wound  between  the  vineyard  walls  to  the 
river. 

A  man  without  human  attachments  is  an 

enigma.   To  be  comprehended,  one  must  have 

a  past,  either  respectable  or  disreputable.    To 

descend  upon  a  community  without  social  pass- 

....  75  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

ports,  from  nowhere,  to  have  no  sponsor,  no  visi- 
ble means  of  existence,  to  possess  nothing,  even 
a  name,  is  to  set  curiosity  in  motion  and  justify 
suspicion.  A  man  must  have  had  a  father,  a 
mother.  Who  were  they?  There  must  be  a  be- 
ginning to  everything.  What  was  the  beginning 
of  this  existence  which,  like  a  comet  without  ante- 
cedents, had  silently  installed  itself  in  the  orderly 
system  of  Freyr?  The  social  astronomers  of  the 
basse-ville  had  in  vain  calculated  its  orbit.  Some 
fault  even  had  been  found  with  the  Countess 
Anne  for  permitting  the  intruder  to  occupy  the 
ruined  hut  which  vaguely  recalled  to  the  oldest 
inhabitant  the  ferry  existing  before  the  stone 
bridge  connected  Freyr  with  the  opposite  shore. 
Originally  a  mere  shelter  for  passengers  awaiting 
transfer  across  the  river,  its  present  master  had 
converted  it  into  a  home.  With  complete  disre- 
gard for  the  necessity  of  any  legal  forms  of  ac- 
quisition, when  occasion  arose  to  mention  it,  he 
referred  to  it  as  chez  moi.  Close  under  the  cliff, 
at  the  end  of  the  now  disused  ferry  lane,  hidden 
by  a  wild  growth  of  overhanging  trees  and  vines, 
it  formed  an  excellent  retreat  for  one  in  whom  the 
consciousness  that  he  was  avoided  had  fostered  a 
corresponding  repugnance  to  society. 


,    The  Three  Experietices  of  Le  l/ieux 

Except  for  his  daily  visit  to  the  bakery  in  the 
Rue  de  la  Cite,  and  an  occasional  detour  to  the 
red  lantern  which  marked  the  spot  where  Ma- 
dame Euphrasie  dispensed  tobacco,  his  presence 
in  Freyr  itself  was  rare.  These  visits,  however, 
being  always  made  after  nightfall,  added  to  his 
sinister  reputation.  During  the  day  he  might  be 
discerned  from  the  parapet  of  the  bridge,  a  black 
spot  under  the  chateau  rock,  in  a  curious  boat  of 
his  own  construction;  and,  later  in  the  day,  Dr. 
Leroux  or  the  Abbe  d'Arlot,  descending  the  path 
through  the  chateau  wood,  occasionally  encount- 
ered him  with  the  basket  of  fish  destined  for  the 
countess's  table.  These  fish  were  the  only  known 
source  of  the  sous  which  found  their  way  across 
the  counter  of  Madame  Euphrasie.  Sometimes 
the  countess  herself,  sitting  under  the  oaks  on  the 
terrace,  wished  to  examine  the  contents  of  his 
basket.  Certainly  some  ancestor  in  his  mysteri- 
ous past  had  entertained  faint  conceptions  of 
the  distinction  which  society  had  established 
between  thine  and  mine,  for  frequently  on  these 
occasions  a  well-nigh  uncontrollable  desire  seized 
him  to  wrench  from  its  fragile  chain  the  glittering 
thing  which  hung  just  below  the  countess's  throat. 
Perhaps  it  was  that  same  ancestor  who  also 
....  77  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

implanted  in  his  soul  the  deadly  fear  which  re- 
strained his  hand  —  a  fear,  instinctive  as  that  of 
the  wild  animal  for  fire,  of  something  incompre- 
hensible but  real,  a  ubiquitous  power  which,  like 
an  inveterate  enemy,  dogged  his  footsteps,  and 
which  was  visibly  imaged  in  his  mind  under  the 
form  of  the  commissary  of  police. 

It  would  have  surprised  the  Countess  Anne  to 
know  that  the  fires  in  the  jewel,  the  mere  weight 
of  which  on  her  bosom  brought  happy  recollec- 
tions, had  kindled  another  fire  which  belied  the 
opinion  of  the  young  lieutenant  of  chasseurs. 
Solitude  and  imagination,  which  nearly  proved 
the  ruin  of  St.  Anthony,  also  conspired  with  the 
countess's  diamond.  In  the  long  hours  devoted 
to  watching  the  cork  floating  from  his  line  on 
the  surface  of  the  river,  Le  Vieux  saw  this  dia- 
mond shining  in  the  blue  depths  below.  Doubtless 
within  those  vast  stone  walls  frowning  from  the 
rock  above  were  countless  such,  as  well  as  bits 
of  blue- tinted  paper  like  the  thousand-franc  notes 
in  the  banker's  window  in  Freyr.  At  a  distance 
the  attraction  of  these  things  was  insignificant. 
Their  propinquity  obsessed  him.  Once  in  his 
dreams  a  whole  shower  of  these  notes  fluttered 
down  on  the  thatch  of  his  hut  from  the  windows 


The  Three  Experiences  of  Le  Vieux 

above  the  tree-tops,  like  autumn  leaves.  What 
wore  into  his  brain,  as  the  dripping  water  from 
the  cliff  into  the  rocks  at  its  base,  was  the  damna- 
ble iteration  of  these  thoughts.  Obviously  either 
a  diamond  or  a  thousand-franc  note  would  be  of 
dubious  value  to  him.  To  hold  them  in  his  hand 
for  his  own,  to  know  them  hidden  under  his  roof, 
was  the  sum  of  his  desire.  The  difficulty  of  con- 
verting them  into  any  pleasure  greater  than  their 
possession  was  so  enormous  that  he  did  not  even 
think  of  it.  Moreover,  in  the  background  loomed 
the  shadow  of  that  dread  power  called  the  Law, 
invoked  by  the  inhabitants  of  Freyr  as  a  blessing, 
but  known  to  him  only  as  the  commissary  of 
police.  A  plan,  at  first  vague,  began  slowly  to 
shape  itself  in  his  thoughts. 

It  was  while  evolving  this  plan  one  late  after- 
noon, as  he  sat  smoking  in  the  doorway  of  his 
cabin,  that  an  extraordinary  incident  occurred. 
A  piercing  cry,  followed  by  a  heavy  splash  in  the 
water  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  brought  him  to  his 
feet.  In  an  instant  he  had  loosened  the  moorings 
of  his  boat  and  was  sweeping  under  the  gray  wall 
of  rock  in  the  boiling  waters  of  the  eddy  known 
as  the  "Cauldron  of  the  Devil."  A  dark  object 
before  him  disappeared  and  reappeared  again. 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

A  few  powerful  strokes  of  the  oar  brought  him 
within  its  reach.  With  a  decision  not  to  be  sus- 
pected of  a  mind  whose  action  was  ordinarily  so 
sluggish,  he  plunged  overboard.  Below,  the  river 
widened,  curving  along  a  low  reach  of  meadow. 
Here,  in  the  quiet  backwater,  he  appeared  pres- 
ently, swimming  strongly  and  evenly,  and,  on 
gaining  footing  in  the  shallows,  the  dark  object 
was  clearly  in  his  arms.  Two  small  white  hands 
were  locked  so  tightly  about  his  neck  that  he 
loosened  their  hold  with  difficulty.  Stripping  off 
the  wet  outer  garment,  he  wrapped  what  he  now 
observed  was  a  little  girl  in  his  blouse  and  began 
to  pick  his  way  along  the  shore. 

On  account  of  the  cliff  he  was  obliged  to  make 
the  circuit  of  the  chateau  through  the  forest.  As 
he  proceeded  he  felt  with  satisfaction  the  beat- 
ing of  a  heart  beneath  the  blouse  —  with  satis- 
faction, because  it  would  be  difficult  to  explain 
what  he  was  doing  with  a  dead  child  in  his  arms. 
No  one  is  more  suspicious  or  more  difficult  to  con- 
vince than  the  commissary  of  police.  It  was  with 
increased  satisfaction  that,  after  reaching  his  hut, 
he  saw  in  the  bundle  gently  deposited  on  his  bed 
renewed  evidences  of  life.  Stimulated  by  a  few 
drops  from  a  black  bottle,  by  the  warmth  of  a 
....  80  •••• 


The  Three  Experiences  of  Le  Vieux 

ragged  covering  heated  before  a  quickly  impro- 
vised fire,  the  child's  eyes  opened.  It  did  not 
occur  to  him  that  the  image  of  sudden  death,  so 
recently  present,  was  the  cause  of  their  terror. 
Had  he  not  himself  always  been  a  cause  of  terror 
to  every  child  in  Freyr?  It  was  necessary  to  efface 
himself,  to  divert  attention,  to  assume  his  best 
manner.  He  began  to  talk  rapidly,  incoherently, 
spreading  the  wet  garments  with  nervous  uncon- 
cern before  the  fire. 

"  The  river  is  cold  —  naturally  —  even  in  sum- 
mer —  but  a  drop  of  brandy  —  that  feels  good  in 
the  stomach,  eh?  When  I  have  dried  this  frock  — 
what  a  pretty  blue  color  it  has!  —  and  these 
shoes  —  ah,  there  is  nothing  so  bad  as  shoes  — 
they  fill  with  water  —  and  that  pulls  one  down 
like  a  weight — it  is  true  I  am  good  for  nothing  — 
but  have  no  fear — " 

The  terror  had  gone  out  of  the  child's  eyes. 
"I  am  not  afraid,"  she  said. 

He  looked  up,  his  blinking  eyes  filled  with  a 
dull  surprise  and  wonder. 

"You  are  not  afraid!" 

"  Why  should  I  be  afraid?  But  for  you  I  should 
have  remained  down  there. " 

His  face  lighted  up  slowly.   "Norn  de  Dieu! 
....  81  .... 


cDiane  and  Her  Friends 

that  is  true.  But  for  me"  —  he  laughed  aloud  — 
"you  would  have  remained  down  there.  And  you 
thought  of  that!" 

"Why  should  I  not  think  of  that,  monsieur?" 

The  question  plunged  him  in  still  deeper  be- 
wilderment. Holding  the  soaked  clothing  to  the 
blaze,  he  gazed  into  the  fire  as  if  slowly  digesting 
some  incredible  statement. 

"Monsieur,  now  will  you  please  take  me 
home?" 

Since  when  had  any  one  called  him  monsieur? 
He  roused  himself  instantly. 

"  This  moment  —  of  what  am  I  thinking?  — 
your  mother — " 

"I  have  no  mother,  monsieur." 

"Ah!"  He  paused.  He  had  committed  an 
error.  "No  —  naturally  —  that  is  —  but  your 
father—" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have  a  father." 

"So  much  the  better.  There!"  wrapping  her 
in  his  warm  blouse  and  taking  her  in  his  arms. 
"Forward!  Where  does  he  live  —  this  good 
father?" 

"In  the  Place  de  la  Republique." 

"The  Place  de  la  Republique?  That  is  easy  to 
find." 

....  82  •••• 


The  Three  Experiences  of  Le  Vieux 

"Yes,  at  the  prefecture." 

"The  prefecture?"  He  repeated  the  word  as 
one  who  is  in  doubt  whether  he  has  heard 
aright. 

"Yes,  moniseur.  My  father"  —  this  a  little 
proudly  —  "  is  Monsieur  Surbeck. " 

He  stood  still  as  if  stunned  by  a  blow. 

"You  are  the  child  of  Monsieur  Surbeck?" 

"Yes,  monsieur." 

Closing  the  door  mechanically  behind  him,  he 
stumbled  along  the  uneven  path  between  the  in- 
closing walls  of  the  vineyards.  The  commissary 
of  police!  The  full  import  of  this  revelation  did 
not  at  first  disclose  itself.  It  began  to  grow  like  a 
distant  and  approaching  light.  Suddenly  he  mut- 
tered aloud, "  What  luck ! "  He  did  not  reason  this 
out  clearly  —  perhaps  the  logic  was  faulty  —  he 
felt  it  —  that  he  held  his  enemy  in  the  hollow  of 
his  hand. 

Thereafter  he  did  not  speak.  It  was  now  late. 
Lamps  were  lighted  in  Freyr.  The  prefecture  was 
quite  dark.  The  child  pointed  out  a  little  door 
in  the  moss-grown  court.  Unwrapping  his  blouse 
from  about  her,  he  stood  her  gently  on  the  door- 
step, reaching  for  the  long  wire  dangling  beside 
the  door.  It  was  at  this  instant  that  the  child, 
....  83  -. 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

lifting  up  her  face,  said,  "Monsieur,  I  would  like 
to  kiss  you. " 

A  servant  answered  the  summons.  M.  Surbeck 
was  not  at  home.  Then  arose  exclamations,  cries, 
the  clatter  of  hurrying  footsteps.  In  the  con- 
fusion he  escaped. 

Bareheaded,  his  blouse  over  his  arm,  the  im- 
print of  a  kiss  still  on  his  forehead,  he  came  before 
realizing  it  into  the  glare  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Re- 
gence.  His  clothes  were  still  drenched  with  the 
slime  and  water  of  the  river.  A  woman's  voice 
was  heard  from  one  of  the  tables,  saying,  "  It  is 
an  outrage  to  public  morality  to  permit  such 
things. "  He  drew  back  quickly,  but  not  before  a 
heavy  hand  rested  on  his  shoulder. 

"In  what  hole  have  you  been  digging,  you 
sewer-rat?" 

"Monsieur  le  commissaire, "  he  said  humbly, 
"I  have  just  pulled  your  child  out  of  the  Devil's 
Cauldron.  You  will  find  her  on  your  doorstep. " 

The  rescue  of  "the  little  Surbeck"  provided 
Freyr  with  ample  material  for  gossip.  The  child 
herself  was  made  to  repeat  every  detail  for  the 
hundredth  time.  It  was  admitted  that  a  good- 
for-nothing  had  for  once  been  good  for  something. 
....  84  •••• 


Tbe  Three  Experiences  of  Le  Vieux 

But  what  a  fool,  to  reject  the  good  money  which 
M.  Surbeck  had  pressed  upon  him;  to  refuse  even 
the  new  boat  ordered  by  the  mayor!  The  verdict 
of  the  basse-ville  was  unanimous:  Le  Vieux  was 
"an  original."  The  Abbe  d'Arlot,  on  the  other 
hand,  saw  in  this  conduct  a  proof  of  his  contention 
that  in  every  soul  there  existed  a  seed  planted  by 
God.  In  all  Freyr  M.  Surbeck  was  the  only  per- 
son who  was  not  astonished.  Enemies  do  not 
accept  favors  from  each  other.  To  be  under  ob- 
ligations to  such  a  man  annoyed  him.  Should 
occasion  arise,  the  occasion  always  present  to  his 
mind,  he  would  no  longer  be  free.  That  a  per- 
sonal obligation  should  interfere  with  an  official 
duty  was  inconceivable. 

Hardly  a  week  elapsed,  however,  before  the 
inconceivable  confronted  him.  It  arrived  in  the 
mail  from  Paris.  Every  employee  in  the  prefec- 
ture observed  that  morning  that  the  commis- 
sary, always  so  methodical,  so  impassive,  ap- 
peared agitated.  At  ten  o'clock  he  closed  his  desk 
and  left  the  prefecture  without  explanation  —  an 
unheard-of  proceeding.  The  bonne  of  the  Abbe 
d'Arlot  was  no  less  surprised,  on  answering  the 
bell  at  the  garden  gate,  to  see  the  commissary 
before  her.  Never  before  had  he  called  upon  the 
....  85  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

abbe".  As  for  that  matter,  he  had  never  even  been 
seen  within  the  doors  of  Our  Lady  of  Mercy.  The 
truth  was  that,  while  a  good  friend  and  neighbor, 
he  had  never  personally  felt  the  need  for  the  re- 
straints or  consolations  of  Religion,  which,  in  his 
opinion,  like  the  Law,  existed  for  the  benefit  of 
that  portion  of  society  which  came  also  under 
his  supervision.  For  the  abbe  he  entertained  the 
respect  due  to  the  servant  and  administrator  of  a 
coordinate  branch  of  the  public  service.  It  was 
in  that  capacity  that  he  announced  himself  as  the 
abbe  offered  him  a  seat  under  the  linden  of  his 
garden.  So  far  into  the  morning  was  the  inter- 
view prolonged  that  the  abbe's  bonne  began  to 
be  concerned  for  the  soup  simmering  on  the  fire. 
She  had  almost  made  up  her  mind  to  interfere, 
and  had  ventured  to  the  fountain  on  the  pretense 
of  washing  the  lettuce.  From  this  point  of  ob- 
servation she  saw  with  amazement  that  neither 
her  master  nor  his  visitor  was  speaking.  Upon 
both  these  servants  of  society  a  silence  had  fallen. 
Then  she  heard  the  abbe  say:  — 
"Let  us  consult  the  Countess  Anne." 
Curiosity  now  banished  anxiety  for  the  soup, 
and  while  still  under  its  influence  the  two  men 
rose. 

....  86  •••• 


r  The  Three  Experiences  of  Le  Vieux 

"After  you,  monsieur,"  said  the  abbe".  And 
the  creaking  gate  closed  behind  them. 

If  the  commissary  assented  at  once  to  the 
abbe's  proposal,  it  was  not  solely  because  of  his 
desire  to  share  with  some  one  his  responsibility. 
The  Countess  Anne  occupied  a  peculiar  position 
in  the  social  organism  of  Freyr.  Her  ministry 
possessed  the  authority  neither  of  the  Law  nor  of 
the  Church,  yet  was  scarcely  less  honored;  for, 
as  Dr.  Leroux  once  sarcastically  observed  to  the 
abbe,  her  justice  was  finer  than  that  of  the  one 
and  her  charity  wider  than  that  of  the  other.  In 
certain  perplexities,  moreover,  a  man  turns  in- 
stinctively to  that  other  court  of  appeal,  whose 
procedures  are  of  a  different  order,  since  they  are 
presided  over  by  a  woman. 

Seated  in  the  high-backed  chair  in  the  little 
room  which  the  countess  called  her  bureau,  the 
abbe  stated  the  case. 

"M.  le  Commissairej "  he  began,  "was  con- 
fronted with  a  painful  necessity"  —  the  abbe 
pronounced  the  word  with  great  gentleness. 
"In  the  discharge  of  his  duty  to  society  he  had 
investigated  the  civil  status  of  the  man  known 
as  Le  Vieux.  This  man  was  now  identified.  He 
had  committed  a  crime  —  the  abb6  omitted  to 
.....  87  •••• 


tDiane  and  Her  Friends 

mention  its  nature  —  for  which  he  had  been 
sentenced  to  a  term  of  years.  He  had  escaped.  A 
complete  dossier  had  been  received  from  the  Pre- 
fecture of  Paris. " 

The  commissary  nodded  affirmation.  "I  have 
the  documents  here,"  he  said,  tapping  his  breast- 
pocket. 

"Give  them  to  me,"  said  the  countess.  Evi- 
dently she  wished  to  examine  them.  The  abbe 
had  not  been  very  explicit.  "I  accept  full  re- 
sponsibility for  them,"  she  continued,  opening 
the  desk  before  which  she  was  seated  and  de- 
positing them  carefully  in  one  of  its  numerous 
pigeonholes. 

"But,  madame,"  exclaimed  the  astonished 
commissary,  "I  have  my  report  to  make.  There 
are  also  my  instructions. " 

"Make  it,  my  friend,  make  it  —  in  strict  con- 
formity with  the  truth.  As  for  your  instructions, 
that  is  another  matter.  I  also  will  make  a  report 
to  the  prefect.  Consider  your  duty  ended." 

"Madame  la  Comtesse  is  right,"  interjected 
the  abbe. 

"I  promise  also,"  she  added,  "to  restore  you 
these  papers  whenever  in  the  discharge  of  your 
duty  you  require  them  of  me." 


The  Three  Experiences  of  Le  Vieux 

In  fulfillment  of  her  promise  the  Countess  wrote 
to  Paris.  The  reply  of  the  prefect  was  a  model 
of  politeness.  He  presented  his  compliments  to 
the  Comtesse  de  Salignac.  Her  kindness  of 
heart  had  been  imposed  upon.  The  criminal  in 
question  was  a  most  dangerous  character.  He 
also  appreciated  fully  the  feelings  of  the  local 
functionary.  They  were  most  creditable.  To 
arrest  a  man  who  had  risked  life  to  save  an  only 
child  was  a  delicate  mission  which  he  would  on 
no  account  impose  upon  a  public  servant  whose 
record  was  irreproachable.  An  inspector  was 
therefore  leaving  Paris  that  very  day  to  take 
charge  of  the  affair.  And  again  he  had  the  honor 
to  beg  Madame  la  Comtesse  to  accept  the  assur- 
ance of  his  most  distinguished  consideration. 

On  reading  this  letter  the  countess  went  at 
once  to  her  desk  and  wrote  another.  It  was  ad- 
dressed to  General  Texier,  Paris.  After  relating 
the  details  of  the  case,  she  continued:  — 

"Of  what  clay,  my  dear  general,  is  your  Prefect 
of  Paris  made  that  he  imagines  that  our  friend 
the  commissary  can  hide  his  head  like  an  ostrich 
in  the  sand  while  another  is  doing  the  work 
which  he  shrinks  from  himself  ?  You  or  I  would 
...  89  •••• 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

certainly  warn  our  protege,  and  when  the  agent 
arrived  the  bird  would  have  flown:  This  is  what  I 
am  resolved  to  do  if  I  do  not  receive  from  you  the 
telegram  you  will  send  me.  In  that  case,  if  I  ever 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  again  it  will  be 
from  behind  the  bars  of  the  prison  which  I  see 
now  from  my  window  —  for  I  believe  there  is  a 
provision  in  the  penal  code  for  those  who  have 
the  effrontery  to  thwart  the  majesty  of  Justice. 
But  I  count  upon  your  influence  at  the  Elysee. 
"  Do  you  remember  that  autumn  in  the  Vosges 
which  I  passed  so  happily  with  you?  We  were 
young  in  those  days;  you  were  thinking  of  the 
advancement  which  you  have  won  and  I  of  the 
happiness  which  I  have  lost.  For  the  sake  of  those 
dear  hours  under  your  roof  and  of  an  old  woman 
who  remembers  them,  hurry,  my  dear  friend,  that 
petit-bleu  which  to-morrow  afternoon  I  shall  be 
hourly  expecting. 

"ANNE  DE  LA  MOTTE-SALIGNAC.  " 

Having  dispatched  this  letter,  the  countess's 
thoughts  reverted  to  the  inspector  who  doubtless 
was  already  on  his  way  to  Freyr.  What  could  she 
do  to  divert  him  in  the  interval?  The  bells  of  Our 
Lady  of  Mercy  were  striking  four.  It  was  the 
....  90  •••• 


The  Three  Experiences  of  Le  Vieux 

hour  at  which  she  usually  visited  the  hospital. 
Her  donkey  Balafre,  in  charge  of  the  gardener, 
was  already  picking  his  way  down  the  steep  path 
with  his  panniers  of  sweets  and  flowers.  Well, 
to-day  she  would  not  go.  She  would  examine 
those  documents  of  M.  Surbeck.  They  were  not 
pleasant  reading.  Crime  has  its  sorrowful  as  well 
as  its  sordid  aspects.  No,  they  were  not  pleasant 
reading.  Lost  in  reflection,  the  sinister  seals  of 
these  incriminating  witnesses  spread  before  her 
on  her  knees,  on  her  desk,  the  sound  of  a  gently 
opened  door  startled  her.  There  is  a  way  of  open- 
ing a  door  which  sends  a  shudder  through  one 
who  hears  it.  Looking  up,  she  saw  a  man  with  a 
knotted  stick  in  his  hand. 

Had  the  abbe  been  able  to  look  into  that  soul 
in  which  he  thought  to  find  the  seed  of  the  good 
God,  his  optimism  would  have  been  sorely  dis- 
concerted. A  bitter  anger  against  self  reigned 
there.  At  every  step  Le  Vieux  had  taken  that 
night,  on  his  way  home,  this  rage  had  increased. 
Why  had  he  answered  so  humbly?  Why  had  he 
cringed?  Because  habit  had  been  too  strong  for 
him.  Because,  hatless,  besmirched  with  mud,  in 
the  glare  of  those  lights,  in  the  presence  of  those 


^Diane  and  Her  Friends 

people,  courage  had  deserted  him.  And  now  this 
man  thought  to  be  quits  with  him  for  a  few  bits 
of  blue- tin  ted  paper!  Ah,non!  NomdeDieu,non! 

The  hand  on  his  shoulder  had  effaced  the  kiss 
on  his  forehead. 

Slowly  the  plan  which  for  a  time  had  lain  dor- 
mant began  to  take  shape  again.  Nothing  cer- 
tainly could  be  more  foolish  than  to  reject  the 
freely  offered  francs  of  the  commissary  and  to  risk 
liberty  for  those  locked  in  the  strong-box  of  the 
countess.  One  bird  in  the  cage  is  worth  two  in 
the  air.  Was  it  a  sullen  rage  against  society  which 
prompted  him?  The  desire  to  defy  at  all  hazards, 
in  a  kind  of  despair,  that  which  crushed  him?  To 
explain  the  complex  motives  which  lie  behind 
certain  human  actions  is  impossible,  reason  so 
often  reasons  irrationally.  In  all  the  confusion  of 
this  sodden  brain  one  conviction,  however,  stood 
out  boldly.  The  hands  of  the  commissary  were 
tied.  It  was  inconceivable  that  the  man  who  had 
seized  him  so  roughly  before  the  Cafe  de  la  Re- 
gence  should  ever  again  lay  his  hand  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  savior  of  his  child.  This  also  was 
illogical.  But  it  proved  that  the  sewer-rat  of 
M.  Surbeck  had  a  heart,  since  of  the  stoicism  of 
Brutus  he  had  no  conception. 
....  92  .... 


The  Three  Experiences  of  Le  Vieux 

He  had  not  chosen  the  hour  of  four  o'clock 
without  due  premeditation.  It  was  the  hour  when 
the  countess,  accompanied  by  the  gardener,  was 
in  town.  He  chose  the  daytime  because  the  great 
Danes  on  the  terrace  knew  him  well.  After  night- 
fall they  were  less  respectful.  From  his  place  of 
concealment  he  had  heard  the  voice  of  the  gar- 
dener expostulating  with  Balafre,  who  was  wont 
to  pause  at  the  angles  of  the  steep  descent.  The 
way  was  clear.  He  had  also  noted  the  little  stair- 
way which  led  from  the  service  corridor.  He  had 
seen  the  countess  herself  sometimes  make  use  of 
this  stairway  when  he  came  with  his  basket  of 
fish.  Evidently,  then,  it  led  to  her  apartments. 
At  its  head  several  doorways  confronted  him. 
He  chose  the  first  one.  One  must  trust  some- 
thing to  luck.  But  first  he  listened.  He  heard 
no  sound  but  his  own  breathing.  On  opening 
the  door,  therefore,  he  was  astounded  to  meet 
the  eyes  of  the  countess  fixed  upon  him.  His 
hand  tightened  on  his  stick  and  a  scowl  gath- 
ered on  his  face  —  the  scowl  of  a  man  trapped, 
who  finds  more  work  cut  out  for  him  than  he 
contemplated. 

"Come  in,"  said  the  countess;  "you  are  the 
man  I  wished  to  see. " 

...:  93  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

There  was  no  terror  in  the  voice  that  addressed 
him.  The  same  astonishment  he  had  experienced 
at  the  fearlessness  of  the  little  Surbeck  possessed 
him  again.  He  stood  irresolute. 

"Come  in,  Monsieur  Garat;  I  have  something 
to  say  to  you. " 

Garat!  his  name.  He  felt  the  clutch  of  the 
commissary  on  his  shoulder. 

"You  were  born  at  Rheims  on  the  5th  of  Feb- 
ruary, 1847,  —  here  is  y°ur  birth  certificate.  On 
the  24th  of  December,  1876,  in  the  village  of 
Vigny,  you  murdered  the  agent  of  M.  de  Seze, 
who  came  to  collect  the  rent.  There  were  ex- 
tenuating circumstances.  It  seems  that  you  were 
a  good  workman,  that  your  wife  —  but  we  will 
pass  over  these  details,  whose  recital  will  afflict 
you.  You  were  sentenced  to  twenty  years  of 
hard  labor  —  here  is  the  sentence  of  the  Tribunal 
of  Rheims  —  and  you  escaped. " 

A  spasm  of  anger  shook  the  man  from  head  to 
foot.  "Give  me  those  papers,"  he  commanded, 
advancing  threateningly  upon  her. 

"But,  my  good  man,"  said  the  countess,  "you 

are   mistaken  —  these   are   only   copies  —  take 

them  —  I  give  them  to  you  willingly.  They  are 

of  no  consequence.  It  is  with  me,  not  with  them, 

....  94  .... 


The  Three  Experiences  of  Le  l/ieux 

that  you  have  to  deal.  And,  I  assure  you,  I  am 
your  friend." 


"Ah,"  said  the  countess,  relating  this  incident 
afterward  to  the  abbe,  "how  terrified  I  was  at 
that  instant!" 

But  in  Le  Vieux  this  quiet,  even  voice  had 
worked  a  transformation.  His  aspect,  before  ter- 
rible, became  pitiable.  He  was  again  the  accused, 
standing  at  the  bar  before  his  judges,  awaiting 
sentence.  And  this  woman  had  said,  "I  am  your 
friend." 

"  We  will  arrange  all  this  to-morrow,"  pursued 
the  countess,  seizing  her  advantage  and  reaching 
at  the  same  time  for  the  silken  tassel  hanging  be- 
side her  desk.  "  See  no  one,  do  nothing  —  above 
all  things,  do  not  fly.  If  you  trust  me  I  will  pro- 
tect you.  The'rese, "  she  said  to  the  maid  who  had 
answered  her  summons,  "give  Monsieur  Garat 
a  glass  of  sherry  —  and  —  bring  me  one  also  — 
I  feel  a  little  indisposed." 

The  following  morning  Inspector  Joly,  arriv- 
ing from  Paris  by  the  night  express,  drove  over 
the  bridge  from  the  neighboring  station,  and  at 
precisely  eight  o'clock,  having  finished  his  coffee 
....  95  .... 


IDiane  and  Her  Friends 

at  the  Cafe  de  la  Regence,  strolled  leisurely  across 
the  square  to  the  prefecture.  Clean-shaven,  with 
round,  rosy  cheeks,  he  was  taken  by  the  solitary 
waiter,  who  pocketed  the  three  sous  left  on  the 
table,  for  a  commercial  traveler  awaiting  the  hour 
when  the  shopkeepers  removed  their  shutters. 
After  pausing  to  admire  the  fountain  by  Girar- 
don,  M.  Joly  entered  the  archway  of  the  prefec- 
ture. There  he  found  a  note  to  the  effect  that  it 
was  absolutely  essential  to  the  success  of  his  mis- 
sion that  he  should  first  consult  the  Comtesse  de 
Salignac.  The  word  "consult"  annoyed  him.  It 
implied  something  derogatory  to  him  in  his  pro- 
fessional capacity.  Furthermore,  interference  of 
any  kind  was  distasteful  to  him.  But  from  long 
experience  he  knew  the  danger  of  neglecting  any- 
thing. Having,  then,  made  what  he  termed  his 
"little  dispositions,"  he  set  out  for  the  chateau 
plainly  visible  from  the  door  of  the  prefecture. 

It  was  one  of  his  cardinal  principles  not  to 
form  an  opinion  prematurely.  But  from  the  man- 
ner in  which  he  said  to  himself,  "Let  us  now  see 
this  countess,"  it  was  clear  that  he  did  not  attach 
any  particular  importance  to  his  visit.  His  re- 
ception agreeably  surprised  him.  A  little  assump- 
tion of  authority  on  the  part  of  one  belonging  to 
_  ....  96  ..- 


Tbe  Three  Experiences  of  Le  Vi 

the  Old  Regime  might  have  been  expected.  But 
there  was  nothing  officious  in  this  interference. 
He  was  prepared  also  for  possible  flattery,  a 
weapon  he  had  frequently  encountered  in  women 
having  ends  to  gain.  The  recital  to  which  he 
listened  was  so  frank,  so  direct  and  natural,  that 
before  it  was  finished  he  experienced  the  pleasure 
of  flattery  without  knowing  it.  For  this  woman 
took  him  into  her  confidence,  the  confidence  of 
her  loving  heart,  without  tears,  without  plead- 
ings, as  though  he  were  of  the  same  nobility.  He 
admitted  that  he  saw  no  objection  to  awaiting 
the  reply  of  General  Texier. 

"Nor  I,"  said  the  countess.  "This  man  will 
not  think  of  escaping  — " 

"That  would  be  useless,"  remarked  M.  Joly, 
a  little  dryly;  "I  have  taken  my  precautions." 

"He  is  under  surveillance,  then?" 

"It  is  better  in  such  cases,  madame." 

"But  it  was  not  necessary,  I  assure  you.  I 
myself  told  him  on  no  account  to  attempt  flight. " 

The  inspector  restrained  a  gesture  with  diffi- 
culty. 

"You  see,  he  came  last  night  in  this  room  to 
rob  me.  He  stood  there,  at  that  door  behind  you, 
with  a  villainous  stick  in  his  hand.  Fortunately, 
,  ....  97  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

I  was  armed  with  the  documents  of  M.  Surbeck. 
'Monsieur  Garat,'  I  said,  'I  know  you.  You 
murdered  the  agent  of  M.  de  Seze  in  Vigny  on 
the  24th  of  December,  1876.  Go  back  to  your 
home  and  remain  there;  I  will  protect  you. '" 

"And  you  imagine  that  he  is  still  there?" 

Between  admiration  for  such  courage  and  as- 
tonishment at  such  credulity  M.  Joly  was  nearly 
speechless. 

"I  think  so.  Naturally  you  are  not  inclined 
to  agree  with  me.  But  I  believe  I  can  convince 
you.  Every  morning  I  observe  the  smoke  which 
rises  from  his  chimney.  I  observed  it  to-day. " 

The  inspector  smiled.  She  would  make  an  ex- 
cellent agent,  he  thought. 

"  You  see,  monsieur,  I  am  not  thinking  of  this 
man's  body.  I  wish,  if  possible,  to  save  his  soul. 
No  one  in  Freyr  but  Monsieur  Surbeck  and  the 
Abbe  d'Arlot  knows  what  we  know.  What  will 
a  pardon  avail  him  if  all  Freyr  knows  that  he  has 
committed  a  murder?  Nothing.  That  is  why  I 
ask  you  to  wait  a  few  hours. " 

"I  see,"  said  the  inspector. 

"There  is  another  request  I  would  make  of 
you,"  she  pursued.  "When  walking  in  the  forest 
I  observe  how,  at  the  rustle  of  a  branch,  all  its 
....  98  -. 


The  Tbree  Experiences  of  Le  Vieux 

inhabitants  take  alarm.  What  will  he  do,  this 
man  to  whom  I  have  said,  'Remain;  I  will  pro- 
tect you, '  if  he  should  hear  the  branch  of  a  tree 
broken  by  your  agent?  Remove  this  agent  at 
once,  I  beg  of  you;  and  since,  in  fact,  it  is  I  who 
guarantee  you  your — "  the  countess  was  about 
to  say  prey  —  "I  will  take  his  place." 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  desire,  madame, "  said  the 
inspector,  rising;  and  as  he  crossed  the  terrace  he 
remarked  to  himself,  "Either  I  have  been  alto- 
gether a  fool  or  very  nearly  an  angel. " 

A  few  minutes  later  the  Countess  Anne  herself 
followed  him  down  the  path.  Seeing  that  she 
wore  her  hat,  the  big  Danes  began  barking 
joyfully. 

."Not  to-day,"  she  said,  as  they  tugged  at  their 
chains.  "To-day  I  have  need  of  another  sort  of 
protector. " 

After  stopping  for  a  moment  at  the  Bureau  des 
Postes  et  Telegraphes,  she  rang  the  bell  which 
dangled  in  the  inner  court  of  the  prefecture. 

"Would  you  like  to  spend  the  day  with  me  hi 
the  woods?"  was  the  proposal  she  made  to  the 
little  Surbeck. 

"I  would  dearly,"  replied  the  child. 

"And  would  you  like  to  take  something  to  that 
....  99  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

poor  man  who  saved  your  life?"  she  asked,  as 
they  passed  before  the  shops  of  the  Grande  Rue. 

The  child's  eyes  glistened  with  pleasure. 

"Come,  then,"  said  the  countess,  entering  the 
Maison  Duval,  above  whose  door  were  the  im- 
posing words  "Produits  Coloniales. " 

A  man  without  work,  whose  wife  is  awaiting 
motherhood,  whose  cupboard  is  empty,  in  a  fit  of 
despair  and  anger  seizes  a  knife  from  the  table 
and  buries  it  in  the  body  of  his  tormentor.  The 
learned  doctor  who  performed  the  autopsy  testi- 
fied that  the  blade  penetrated  the  heart.  "He 
had  no  heart!"  cried  out  the  accused.  This  out- 
burst, promptly  repressed,  emphasized  in  a  dra- 
matic manner  the  extenuating  circumstances. 
Returning  at  the  peril  of  his  life  after  fifteen  years 
of  captivity,  this  man  discovers  no  trace  of  child 
or  mother.  The  only  footprints  left  behind  him 
are  those  on  the  pages  of  the  criminal  records. 
To  interrogate  too  closely  is  dangerous.  He  there- 
fore disappears  beneath  the  surface  of  society  as 
a  drowning  man  disappears.  Thereafter  he  is  a 
dead  man,  alive  only  to  his  own  consciousness. 
For  him  there  is  no  To-morrow  —  only  a  Yester- 
day. And  now  that  Yesterday  rose  up,  menacing. 

....    IOQ    •••• 


The  Tbree  Experiences  of  Le  Vieux 

And  in  the  face  of  this  specter  a  woman  had  said, 
"Above  all,  do  not  fly;  I  will  protect  you." 

Through  the  long  hours  of  the  night  the  waters 
of  the  Meuse  at  the  base  of  the  cliff  repeated 
these  words  incessantly.  When  morning  came  he 
heated  a  little  coffee  mechanically,  as  a  man  eats 
in  the  presence  of  death.  As  the  hours  wore  on, 
the  reassuring  words  which  from  time  to  time  he 
repeated  began  to  lose  their  power.  He  began  to 
reason,  and  with  reason  came  terror.  "Your 
name  is  Garat.  On  the  24th  of  December,  1876, 
you  murdered  the  agent  of  M.  de  Seze  at  Vigny. " 
That  was  true.  And  since  everything  was  known, 
everything  was  decided.  He  would  be  arrested. 

As  yet  he  had  not  opened  the  door.  At  every 
sound  he  trembled.  Yes,  it  was  surely  better  to 
fly,  while  there  was  yet  time  —  to  escape  sus- 
pense if  not  justice.  Having  reached  this  resolu- 
tion, he  lifted  the  stone  under  which  his  hoard- 
ings were  hidden,  concealed  them  in  the  lining  of 
his  trousers,  and  opened  the  door.  Should  he 
trust  himself  to  the  Meuse  or  make  the  circuit 
through  the  forest?  Either  course  was  perilous. 
Or  was  it  better  to  wait  for  nightfall? 

Just  then  a  little  girl  appeared,  running  from 
between  the  high  walls  of  the  lane. 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

"Monsieur,  monsieur,"  she  cried,  "we  have 
come  to  pass  the  day  with  you. " 

"I  cannot  tell  you  how  those  hours  passed," 
said  the  countess  to  the  Abbe  d'Arlot,  as  they 
sat  one  evening  on  the  terrace.  "What  diversions 
I  invented,  what  terrible  silences  occurred,  what 
glances  were  avoided.  But  for  that  child  it  would 
have  been  impossible  —  impossible.  But  in  the 
afternoon  they  brought  me  my  petit-Ueu  from  the 
Minister  of  Justice.  It  contained  only  two  words: 
'  Garat  —  pardoned. '  '  Can  you  read? '  I  said  to 
him.  'A  little,  madame.'  'Take  this  to  monsieur, 
my  child,'  I  said;  'it  is  your  present  to  your 
savior. '  After  that  —  well,  truly,  I  remember 
nothing.  It  was  a  kind  of  delirium. " 

"And  you  are  not  afraid  to  have  a  murderer 
for  your  head  gardener?"  smiled  the  abbe. 

"Really,  my  friend,"  said  the  countess,  "I 
think  more  of  him  than  of  my  two  Danes. " 


THE  TWELVE  GREEN  RUSSIAN 
GARNETS 

IT  was  called  the  "H6tel  d'ltalie  et  d'Angle- 
terre. "  Why?  Neither  Italians  nor  English- 
men frequented  it.  Nor  had  M.  Achille,  its 
proprietor,  ever  visited  these  countries  except  in 
imagination.  Why  not "  Peking  and  Timbuctoo?  " 

It  possessed  a  terrace  extending  to  the  river, 
where  it  was  a  delight  to  dine  on  summer  even- 
ings, especially  if  one  selected  a  table  by  the 
railing,  from  which  one  could  see  the  reflections 
of  the  lights  on  the  bridge  and  hear  the  lapping 
of  little  waves  against  the  wall.  Its  front  was 
overwhelmed  by  vines,  which  almost  entirely 
obscured  the  letters  of  its  Anglo-Italian  appella- 
tion, and  dropped  their  leaves  and  blossoms  on 
the  awning  sheltering  the  tables  on  either  side  of 
the  entrance. 

Seated  at  one  of  these  tables  behind  the  pro- 
tecting row  of  box  trees,  his  hands  clasped  over 
his  white  waistcoat,  Inspector  Joly  could  observe 
people  walking  in  the  shade  of  the  allee  or  gossip- 
....  I03  .... 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

ing  on  the  stone  seats.  M.  Joly  preferred  society 
to  solitude.  He  loved  movement  and  the  sun. 
Under  ordinary  circumstances  he  would  certainly 
have  been  amused  at  the  little  army  of  school- 
children, their  knapsacks  bulging  with  books, 
gathered  in  awe  about  the  yellow  omnibus,  which, 
after  so  many  fruitless  journeys  to  the  station 
beyond  the  bridge,  had  returned  groaning  under 
such  a  load  of  baggage  that  its  passage  beneath 
the  low  arch  of  the  clock-tower  had  been  accom- 
plished only  by  a  miracle  of  skill. 

M.  Achille  was  beside  himself  with  importance. 
His  entire  first  floor  had  been  taken.  When  not 
adding  to  the  confusion  by  the  multiplicity  of 
his  orders,  he  stood  in  an  attitude  of  silent  con- 
templation which  reminded  one  of  the  colored 
print  in  the  salle-cl-manger  —  Napoleon  watching 
the  preparations  for  the  embarkation  of  the  army 
at  Boulogne. 

All  this  tumult,  however,  failed  to  interest  M. 
Joly.  He  was  reflecting.  He  had  come  to  Freyr 
to  make  an  important  arrest,  and  as  his  hand 
closed  upon  the  criminal  an  order  from  Paris  had 
set  this  criminal  free.  M.  Joly  respected  author- 
ity, but  he  was  annoyed.  He  did  not  approve  of 
pardons.  Society  was  of  more  importance  than 
....  104  .... 


The  Twelve  Green  Russian  Garnets 

the  individual.  According  to  his  theory,  when  one 
has  once  definitely  entered  the  criminal  class  one 
remains  there.  To  open  the  cage  door  is  to  let 
loose  the  hawk.  For  the  woman  who  had  set  the 
machinery  of  mercy  in  motion,  however,  he  had 
conceived  a  profound  respect,  having  fallen  in 
twenty-four  hours  under  the  spell  of  that  public 
sentiment  of  Freyr  which  took  it  for  granted 
that  whatever  the  Countess  Anne  did  was  right. 
Sitting  alone  behind  the  box  trees,  M.  Joly 
shrugged  his  shoulders  with  the  air  of  Pilate 
washing  his  hands  of  all  responsibility. 

Meanwhile  a  valet  de  chambre  in  a  green  apron, 
having  dismantled  the  pyramid  of  baggage  of  the 
lesser  objects  which  decorated  its  sides,  assisted 
by  the  driver  of  the  yellow  omnibus,  was  at- 
tacking the  enormous  trunks  which  formed  its 
core. 

"Yes,"  M.  Achille  was  saying  in  answer  to  a 
question  from  the  sergent  de  mile,  "  an  American 
family  —  monsieur,  his  secretary,  madame,  made- 
moiselle, the  valet  of  monsieur,  and  two  maids. " 

"Sapristi!  it  is  a  caravan,"  commented  the 
sergent.  "From  America!  from  Brazil  probably, 
or  Chile!" 

"No,  from  North  America,  from  New  York." 
....  105  -•• 


<Diane  and  Her  Friends 

"Ah,  what  a  people!  to  incommode  themselves, 
to  cross  the  sea  — " 

"Nowadays  it  is  nothing,"  interrupted  M. 
Achille  loftily. 

"There  is  always  the  danger  of  shipwreck,  to 
say  nothing  of  seasickness.  I  prefer  travel  by 
land,"  persisted  the  sergent,  whose  journeying, 
to  and  fro,  under  the  lindens  of  the  allee,  re- 
sembled those  of  the  pendulum. 

If  M.  Joly  observed  and  heard  all  this,  it  was 
from  force  of  habit,  for  he  gave  no  sign.  Mechani- 
cally he  looked  at  his  watch  —  two  o'clock;  there 
was  still  an  hour  before  the  train.  Rising,  he 
took  a  few  turns  back  and  forth  under  the  awn- 
ing, still  preoccupied,  his  hands  crossed  behind 
him.  On  the  terrace  a  young  officer  was  reading 
the  feuilleton  of  the  "£cho  de  Paris. "  At  his  feet 
a  little  girl  with  a  wooden  shovel  was  excavating 
for  hidden  treasure,  regardless  of  the  consequences 
to  her  white  frock.  Leaning  against  his  chair  was 
a  red  parasol,  whose  owner  was  crumbling  M. 
Achille's  bread  to  the  minnows  at  the  foot  of  the 
wall,  her  pointed  shoes  projecting  through  the 
railing.  The  picture  was  a  pretty  one  and  M. 
Joly  adored  the  picturesque.  When  off  duty,  as 
it  were,  he  found  infinite  relief  in  idealizing.  See- 
....  106  »« 


The  Twelve  Green  Russian  Garnets 

ing  him  contemplating  this  scene,  one  expected 
to  hear  him  exclaim,  "Que  c'  est  beau,  1'amour  et 
la  paix!"  But  he  only  shrugged  his  shoulders 
again,  crossed  the  terrace  to  the  bureau,  and  de- 
manded his  bill. 

"  Monsieur  does  not  wait  for  the  omnibus?  " 

"No,  I  prefer  to  walk." 

Just  beyond  the  box  trees,  leaning  amicably 
against  the  side  wall  of  M.  Achille's  establish- 
ment, was  a  little  shop  of  one  story  bearing  the 
sign  "Perrin  —  Antiquaire."  M.  Joly  stopped 
before  its  one  dingy  window,  not  because  he  was 
interested  in  antiquities,  but  because  he  had  time 
to  spare,  when  suddenly  his  round  eyes,  wander- 
ing over  the  motley  collection  of  bric-a-brac,  be- 
came fixed,  riveted,  upon  an  object  suspended  by 
a  string  from  one  of  the  shelves.  It  was  a  Japanese 
gold  coin,  rectangular  in  shape,  surrounded  by 
twelve  green  Russian  garnets. 

M.  Joly  had  an  astonishing  memory,  which 
stored  up  automatically  impressions  of  no  ap- 
parent importance.  This  lumber-house  of  unfor- 
gotten  things,  so  invaluable  to  one  of  his  profes- 
sion, had  not  infrequently  afforded  him  precious 
assistance.  At  this  moment  he  had  precisely  the 
air  of  a  man  searching  for  something  in  a  heap  of 
....  I07  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

rubbish.  Yes!  now  he  remembered.  The  recol- 
lections evoked  by  this  object  dangling  from  its 
string  had  arranged  themselves  in  their  proper 
places.  Madame  Raymonde,  living  in  the  Im- 
passe Bertrand,  —  one  of  those  pieces  of  wreck- 
age, the  press  had  said,  which  storms  leave 
stranded  in  obscure  places,  —  found  dead  one 
morning  in  her  room.  The  medical  examiner  had 
reported  death  from  natural  causes,  the  autopsy 
having  revealed  a  weak  heart.  The  dead  woman 
had  no  known  enemies,  no  visitors,  no  acquaint- 
ances even.  Robbery  was  impossible,  for  she 
possessed  nothing.  So  the  affair  was  forgotten. 

But  M.  Joly  had  not  forgotten.  Standing  be- 
fore this  window,  his  eyes  half  closed,  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  dragging  out  from  his  storehouse  a  fact 
to  which  these  green  garnets  gave  a  new  signi- 
ficance. Contrary  to  all  the  evidence,  a  neighbor 
occupying  an  adjoining  room  had  insisted  that 
Madame  Raymonde's  death  was  not  a  natural 
one.  Why?  Had  she  seen  any  one?  No.  Had  she 
heard  anything?  No.  But  Madame  Raymonde 
possessed  a  jewel  and  this  jewel  had  disappeared. 
She  had  seen  it  once  only,  by  accident,  when 
madame  was  dressing,  concealed  in  her  bosom  be- 
neath her  dress,  and  could  therefore  give  but  the 
....  108  •••• 


The  Twelve  Green  Russian  Garnets 

vaguest  description  of  it;  but  on  one  point  she 
was  persistent  —  it  was  of  gold,  with  a  border  of 
stones  like  green  flames.  This  theory,  contributed 
by  an  outsider,  the  police  treated  with  scant 
courtesy.  The  story  was  pronounced  incredible 
and  the  jewel  a  myth.  Jewels  were  invented  for 
display,  not  concealment.  There  was  nothing  to 
prove  that  madame  possessed  any  such  ornament 
at  the  time  of  her  death.  No  one  else  had  seen  it, 
and  it  was  impossible  to  possess  what  never  had 
been  seen. 

M.  Joly  smiled  as  he  recalled  this  conclusion. 
Professional  pride  did  not  prevent  him  from  smil- 
ing in  secret  at  the  mistakes  of  his  colleagues. 
Was  it,  indeed,  a  mistake?  One  circumstance 
certainly  had  given  body  to  suspicion.  According 
to  the  version  in  the  press,  just  before  her  death 
Madame  Raymonde  had  engaged  a  bonne  and 
this  bonne  had  disappeared  as  completely  as  the 
jewel.  It  was  not  possible  to  pronounce  the  bonne 
also  a  myth,  yet  every  effort  to  discover  her  had 
proved  fruitless,  and  M.  Joly  knew  from  experi- 
ence that  when  the  police  do  not  succeed  they 
forget.  He  admitted  that  to  connect  this  bit  of 
jewelry  with  the  events  of  the  Impasse  Bertrand 
was  a  pure  speculation ;  but,  methodical  as  he  was, 
....  I09  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

he  believed  in  irresistible  impulses  —  and  opened 
M.  Perrin's  door. 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  examined  in  turn 
a  Zaghwan  embroidery,  a  Louis  XV  snuffbox,  a 
decanter  of  La  Granja  glass,  learning  in  the  mean- 
while that  M.  Perrin  had  an  establishment  in 
Paris,  117  Rue  Lafayette.  About  to  take  his 
leave,  he  paused  a  moment  at  the  window. 

"It  is  curious,  this,"  he  said,  detaching  the 
garnet  pin  from  its  string. 

"It  is  nothing,  it  is  modern,"  remarked  the 
shopkeeper,  reaching  for  a  chain  of  seed-pearls 
spaced  with  Indian  amethysts. 

"  But  it  amuses  me.  At  what  do  you  value  it?  " 

"Two  hundred  francs." 

"  Come,  now,  these  are  garnets,  not  emeralds. " 
M.  Joly  was  an  expert  in  precious  stones. 

"That  is  true,"  admitted  M.  Perrin,  with  in- 
creased respect,  "but  — 

"You  have  a  record  of  your  purchases,"  inter- 
rupted M.  Joly  curtly. 

"  Certainly. " 

"That  is  prudent.  Let  us  see  it.  Here  is  my 
card." 

Having  adjusted  his  spectacles  and  examined 
the  card,  the  hesitation  of  M.  Perrin  disappeared. 


The  Twelve  Green  Russian  Garnets 

No.  1798.  Bought  of  Jean  Dufresnes,  concierge, 
5  Impasse  Bertrand. 

Then  followed  the  date  and  a  character  in 
cipher  indicating  the  price. 

"Good,"  said  M.  Joly,  taking  a  hundred- 
franc  note  from  the  folds  of  his  pocketbook  and 
putting  in  its  place  the  garnet  pin.  "You  have 
your  professional  secrets  and  I  have  mine.  Good- 
day,  Monsieur  Perrin. " 

"  Good-day,  Monsieur  1'Inspecteur. " 

Alone  in  the  compartment  of  a  second-class 
carriage  M.  Joly  smiled  again.  He  stood  for  a 
while  at  the  window  watching  the  receding 
meadows  of  Freyr,  then  ensconcing  himself  in  a 
corner  opened  his  pocketbook.  It  was  most  cer- 
tainly a  curious  thing  —  this  Japanese  coin,  with 
its  strange  characters  and  green  garnets  ranged 
along  its  sides.  No  jeweler  would  invent  a  com- 
bination so  unconventional,  so  meaningless.  And 
precisely  because  so  unconventional,  it  must 
have  a  meaning  —  a  meaning  due  to  some  ex- 
ceptional circumstance,  some  personal  experience, 
which  it  was  perhaps  designed  as  a  gift  to  com- 
memorate and  keep  in  perpetual  remembrance. 
Why  else  should  this  strange  ornament  lie  con- 
cealed in  a  woman's  bosom?  M.  Joly  did  not 


Tlicine  and  Her  Friends 

share  with  some  of  his  colleagues  their  scorn  for 
speculation.  For  the  very  reason  that  certain 
facts  were  missing  he  found  speculation  a  neces- 
sity. He  maintained  that  the  role  of  the  imagira- 
tion  was  as  important  for  him  as  for  the  scientist, 
whose  hypothesis  is  a  fire-ball  thrown  out  into 
the  outlying  dark  —  to  illuminate  that  darkness, 
not  to  attract  attention  to  itself  by  its  own  bril- 
liancy. His  preliminary  inspection  completed,  he 
took  out  his  microscope.  Ah!  by  turning  slightly 
one  of  the  garnets  a  spring  was  released  and  the 
back  slid  gently  in  its  grooves.  Inside?  Nothing. 
His  curiosity  satisfied,  he  composed  himself  in 
his  corner,  folded  his  hands,  closed  his  eyes,  and 
went  to  sleep. 

When  M.  Joly  inquired  for  the  concierge  at 
No.  5  Impasse  Bertrand  an  old  man  sitting  be- 
fore the  doorway  in  the  sun  rose  and  took  off  his 
hat. 

"You  are  Monsieur  Dufresnes?" 

"At  your  service,  monsieur." 

The  man  leaned  heavily  upon  a  stick,  his  hat 
trembling  in  his  hand.  Beneath  his  thin  white 
hair  a  pair  of  faded  blue  eyes  produced  in  M.  Joly 
a  kind  of  shock,  for  this  benevolent  face  assuredly 

....    H2    •••• 


The  Twelve  Green  Russian  Garnets 

did  not  conform  to  the  criminal  type.  In  aban- 
doning one  theory  M.  Joly  said  to  himself, "  Come, 
come,  now  you  are  forming  another."  Then 
aloud,  "  You  have  been  here  a  long  time?  " 

"A  long  time,  monsieur." 

"Perhaps,  then,  you  can  tell  me  something 
about  one  of  your  former  lodgers. " 

"It  is  possible." 

"Madame  Raymonde. " 

"Ah." 

"Why  do  you  say  'ah'?" 

"Your  pardon,  but  —  you  knew  Madame 
Raymonde?  " 

"Let  us  say  I  am  a  relation,"  said  M.  Joly. 

M.  Dufresnes  made  no  reply.  He  seemed  dazed, 
looking  toward  the  door  of  the  lodge  as  if  appeal- 
ing for  help. 

"Shall  we  go  in?"  said  M.  Joly,  leading  the 
way. 

A  woman  was  standing  before  the  charcoal 
fire,  a  spoon  in  her  hand.  "My  wife,"  said  M. 
Dufresnes.  She  was  much  younger  than  he.  Her 
face  retained  a  certain  freshness.  It  was  a  pleas- 
ant face,  even  a  happy  one.  "Marie,  monsieur  is 
a  relation  of  Madame  Raymonde.  He  has  come 
to  make  some  inquiries." 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

"Ah."  The  woman  laid  down  her  spoon,  wip- 
ing her  hand  on  her  apron. 

"Why  do  you  say  'ah'?"  repeated. M.  Joly. 

"I  did  not  know  that  Madame  Raymonde  had 
any  relations." 

"One  always  has  relations,"  smiled  Monsieur 
Joly. 

"That  is  true,"  observed  M.  Dufresnes. 

His  wife  gave  him  a  quick  glance  of  impatience. 
In  the  pause  which  followed,  a  clock  ticking  con- 
scientiously on  the  mantel  seemed  to  be  saying, 
"What  next!  what  next!" 

"She  died  very  suddenly,"  remarked  M.  Joly, 
taking  a  chair. 

"What  is  it  you  wish  to  know?"  exclaimed  the 
woman,  almost  fiercely,  approaching  her  visitor, 
her  hands  on  her  hips. 

"It  is  so  dark  here.  Shall  we  have  a  little 
light?"  M.  Joly  spoke  in  his  most  affable  man- 
ner. There  was  but  one  small  window  and  he 
abhorred  shadows.  The  woman  obeyed  sullenly, 
placing  the  lamp  on  the  table  among  the  vege- 
tables laid  out  for  the  evening  soup. 

"What  do  I  wish  to  know?"  repeated  M.  Joly, 
taking  from  his  pocketbook  the  green  garnet  pin 
and  laying  it  softly  beside  the  lamp  on  the  table. 
....  114  .... 


The  Twelve  Green  Russian  Garnets 

"I  wish  to  know  what  price  Monsieur  Perrin  paid 
you  for  this. " 

M.  Dufresnes's  eyes  were  glued  upon  the  gar- 
nets, shining  in  the  dull  light  of  the  lamp;  his 
wife's,  fixed  upon  M.  Joly,  asked,  "  Who  are  you 
and  what  do  you  want?" 

"I  am  Inspector  Joly,"  he  said. 

The  woman's  eyes  filled  with  anxiety.  Even  to 
the  innocent  the  presence  of  the  police  is  disturb- 
ing. One  begins  to  imagine  vaguely  some  unsus- 
pected danger,  some  forgotten  incident,  some 
terrible  mistake.  Suspicion  affrights  innocence 
as  accusation  terrifies  guilt. 

"Your  husband  is  ill." 

The  woman  turned  quickly,  leading  the  trem- 
bling man  to  the  recess,  where  he  sank  into  a  chair. 
"It  is  nothing,"  she  said  reassuringly;  "I  will 
talk  with  monsieur. " 

M.  Joly  was  perplexed  by  the  collapse  of  the 
man,  by  the  calmness  of  the  woman,  standing  be- 
tween him  and  the  alcove  in  the  attitude  of  an 
animal  defending  its  young. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said  politely. 

She  took  the  chair  indicated,  waiting,  her  hands 
folded  in  her  lap,  as  if  to  say:  "Interrogate 
me." 


cDiane  and  Her  Friends 

"Well,  proceed,"  said  M.  Joly.  There  was  in 
his  tone  none  of  the  authority  with  which  he  had 
addressed  the  shopman.  "Tell  me  all  that  you 
know  about  Madame  Raymonde.  You  have  noth- 
ing to  fear." 

She  began  without  reserve,  in  a  low  voice  and 
an  accent  of  sincerity.  The  first  shock  of  alarm 
gone,  the  words  came  freely,  as  from  one  who, 
long  troubled  by  some  secret  burden,  had  ex- 
pected the  hour  of  deliverance. 

"  Madame  came  alone,  in  May.  She  lived  very 
quietly,  doing  her  own  work,  going  out  always  at 
nightfall  to  make  her  purchases. " 

"The  evening  is  not  a  favorable  time  to  visit 
the  markets,"  observed  M.  Joly. 

"That  is  true.  I  also  remarked  that.  But 
madame  was  not  communicative.  If  I  ques- 
tioned her  she  became  silent.  Regularly  every 
week  she  paid  the  rent.  At  other  times,  in  pass- 
ing, she  would  say,  'Good-evening,  Madame 
Duf resnes, '  and  I, '  Good-evening,  Madame  Ray- 
monde, '  that  was  all.  The  only  person  in  whom 
she  showed  interest  was  my  little  Rosalie,  whom 
she  would  send  for  whenever  possible.  Often  I 
asked,  'What  does  Madame  Raymonde  say  to 
you  up  there,  Rosalie?'  'She  sews,  and  kisses 


The  Twelve  Green  Russian  Garnets 

me  and  tells  me  stories. '  'What  stories?'  'Of 
great  plains  and  forests  where  are  wolves  and 
much  snow.'" 

"She  was  a  Russian?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  monsieur.  She  spoke  French 
as  I  do.  At  first  she  was  not  cheerful.  She  had 
always  the  same  anxious  expression.  Afterward 
she  became  more  tranquil  and  smiled  at  me  in 
passing.  'Madame  is  better,'  I  said  to  her  one 
day.  'I  shall  leave  you  this  week;  I  am  going 
home,'  she  replied  gayly.  That  evening  when  she 
returned  she  was  much  agitated.  It  was  the  nth 
of  June.  I  remember  the  day  well  because  on 
Sunday  of  that  week  my  Rosalie  went  to  her  first 
communion.  It  was  not  her  habit  to  come  into 
the  lodge.  I  thought  she  had  received  some  bad 
news.  'What  has  happened?'  I  said  to  her,  see- 
ing her  look  about  like  an  animal  that  is  hunted. 
She  took  my  hands  in  hers,  which  were  cold. 
'  Dear  madame, '  she  said, '  I  beg  of  you  to  listen 
to  me ' ;  then  she  took  this  "  —  Madame  Dufresnes 
touched  the  garnet  pin  —  "from  beneath  her 
dress,  opened  it,  and  showed  me  a  paper  within. 
'  If  anything  should  happen  to  me  — '  '  What 
should  happen  to  you,  madame?'  I  said.  Her 
manner  terrified  me.  '  No  one  can  tell  what  may 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

happen.  Is  it  so  uncommon  a  thing  to  die?  See, 
this  is  how  it  opens, '  showing  me  and  pressing  the 
pin  into  my  hand;  'promise  me,  if  anything 
should  happen,  to  deliver  this  paper  to-morrow 
to  the  person  whose  address  is  written  on  the 
back.'  What  could  I  do!  At  such  moments  one 
promises  everything.  I  thought  her  mad.  Well, 
I  promised;  she  embraced  me  and  was  gone. 
Afterward  I  regretted.  I  said  to  myself:  'If,  in- 
deed, something  should  happen,  something  terri- 
ble! It  is  better  not  to  be  mixed  up  in  such  mat- 
ters. '  Scarcely  had  she  gone  when  a  woman  came 
asking  for  Madame  Raymonde.  'The  fourth 
floor,  the  door  to  the  right,'  I  said.  It  was  so 
sudden,  so  unexpected,  I  answered  from  habit. 
The  jewel  was  still  in  my  hand.  But  I  collected 
myself.  'I  think  she  is  ill,'  I  said;  'I  will  go  and 
see.'  'Certainly  she  is  ill,'  replied  the  woman; 
'I  am  the  bonne  she  has  sent  for,'  and  she  went 
up  the  stairs.  I  told  my  husband  it  was  strange 
madame  had  not  informed  me  that  this  bonne 
should  come.  'Why  do  you  always  worry  about 
the  affairs  of  other  people?'  he  said.  Neverthe- 
less, all  the  night  I  reproached  myself  for  allow- 
ing that  woman  to  enter.  But  you  know  how  it 
is,  monsieur,  when  one  is  concierge.  Some  one 


The  Twelve  Green  Russian  Garnets 

comes,  asks  for  some  one,  and  one  answers.  Early 
in  the  morning  I  said  to  Rosalie,  'Go  and  see  if 
anything  is  wrong  with  Madame  Raymonde; 
there  is  a  bonne  there;  ask  if  madame  is  ill. '  When 
the  child  came  back  she  said  she  had  knocked, 
that  there  was  no  sound  within.  Ah,  then  I 
was  truly  alarmed.  I  called  my  husband.  It  was 
quite  true,  as  Rosalie  had  said,  there  was  no 
sound.  The  door  was  not  locked;  we  went  in  to- 
gether. The  bonne  was  not  there.  Madame  was 
alone  in  bed.  I  touched  her;  she  was  dead.  My 
husband  ran  into  the  street.  I  called  for  help. 
Then  the  police  came,  the  doctor  —  the  whole 
house  was  in  an  uproar." 

The  woman  paused,  as  though  she  expected  to 
be  questioned. 

"Go  on,"  said  M.  Joly. 

"The  next  day  I  went,  as  I  had  promised,  to 
the  Rue  Saint-Denis,  No.  219  —  the  address  on 
the  paper.  It  was  the  i2th  of  June.  I  asked  for 
Monsieur  Meller.  'Yes,'  said  the  concierge,  'he 
arrived  last  night. '  His  room  was  under  the  roof. 
'Monsieur,'  I  said,  'I  have  come  from  Madame 
Raymonde.'  'Madame  Raymonde?'  he  replied; 
'  I  do  not  know  her. '  '  But  I  have  a  message  from 
her,'  I  said,  opening  my  hand  in  which  was  the 
....  119  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

pin.  On  seeing  it,  instantly  his  manner  changed. 
'It  is  well,'  he  said.  Then  I  took  out  the  paper, 
as  madame  had  shown  me,  and  gave  it  to  him  — 
but  he  did  not  look  at  it.  ' Go, '  he  said;  'it  is  not 
good  for  you  to  be  seen  here. '  I  was  so  agitated 
I  could  not  speak,  even  to  say  Madame  Ray- 
monde  was  dead.  I  was  astonished  also  that  he 
did  not  take  the  jewel. " 

She  stopped  abruptly. 

"And  you  did  not  see  what  was  written  on  this 
paper?" 

"No,  monsieur." 

"That  is  all?" 

"That  is  all,  monsieur." 

"And  you  said  nothing  to  any  one?" 

"Why  should  I  say  anything?  Did  I  know  any- 
thing? All  these  events  terrified  me. " 

"You  were  not  afraid  to  dispose  of  this?" 
asked  M.  Joly,  replacing  the  garnet  pin  in  his 
pocketbook. 

"My  husband  said:  'Why  not?  No  one  knows 
of  it.  We  will  add  the  money  to  the  dot  of  Rosa- 
lie.' It  is  the  truth,  monsieur." 

M.  Joly  was  buttoning  up  his  coat.  "I  believe 
you,"  he  said,  simply. 

"The  devil!"  he  exclaimed,  on  the  way  home, 


The  Twelve  Green  Russian  Garnets 

"  I  forgot  to  ask  how  much  Monsieur  Perrin  con- 
tributed to  the  dot  of  Rosalie. " 

Madame  Joly  generally  shared  her  husband's 
professional  perplexities.  In  this  instance  he  had 
kept  silent,  all  because  of  the  hundred  francs 
paid  M.  Perrin.  It  would,  he  knew,  be  impossible 
to  explain  how  the  green  garnets  came  to  occupy 
a  place  in  his  pocketbook  without  mentioning 
that  sum.  It  must  not  be  supposed  that  these 
two  were  not  of  one  mind.  On  the  contrary,  the 
same  ambition  animated  them  both,  this  ambi- 
tion being  a  sort  of  castle  in  Spain  to  be  realized 
when,  at  a  certain  indefinite  age,  M.  Joly  should 
retire  from  active  work.  Having  no  children,  all 
their  economies  had  this  castle  in  Spain  in  view  — 
a  little  villa,  in  a  garden,  inclosed  by  a  high  wall. 
Every  night,  after  pulling  his  nightcap  well  over 
his  ears  and  closing  his  eyes,  M.  Joly  took  a  key 
from  his  pocket,  and  having  paused  just  long 
enough  to  read  the  word  "Monrepos"  in  white 
letters  on  a  blue  ground  beside  the  gate,  opened 
the  latter  cautiously  and  closed  it  proudly  behind 
him.  Straight  before  him  was  a  gravel  path,  with 
a  basin  midway  between  the  gate  and  the  house. 
Other  paths  meandered  between  parterres  —  to 
each  one  of  which  he  had  assigned  its  particular 

....    121    •••• 


T)iane  and  Her  Friends 

arrangement  of  flowers  —  on  one  side  to  an  arbor 
where  he  would  pause  again  to  sip  an  imaginary 
syrup  or  smoke  an  imaginary  cigar;  on  the  other 
to  a  well,  destined  to  furnish  the  water  necessary 
for  the  plants.  Having  finished  his  cigar  and  lis- 
tened to  the  music  of  the  fountain,  M  Joly  began 
his  duties  as  gardener,  and  all  this  required  so 
much  time  that  he  invariably  fell  asleep  before 
reaching  the  perron  of  the  house  —  which  thus 
remained  a  veritable  castle  in  Spain.  ( 

But,  on  the  night  of  his  return  from  the  Im- 
passe Bertrand,  he  was  not  thinking  of  "Mon- 
repos."  Who  was  this  woman  without  resources 
who  paid  her  rent  regularly  and  whose  death, 
originally  the  sole  object  of  his  inquiries,  opened 
the  door  to  a  greater  mystery?  What  was  the 
message,  so  jealously  guarded,  delivered  to  the 
lodger  of  the  Rue  Saint-Denis?  Long  after  Ma- 
dame Joly  had  fallen  asleep  he  groped  alone  in 
the  obscurity  of  conjectures.  He  knew  that  he 
was  not  dealing  with  the  amateur  who  blun- 
ders into  the  clutches  of  the  police  as  a  young 
partridge  flutters  into  the  jaws  of  the  fox;  nor 
with  the  ordinary  criminal  who,  destitute  of  orig- 
inality, commits  over  and  over  the  same  crimes 
from  the  same  motives  by  the  same  methods, 

....    I22    •••• 


The  Twelve  Green  Russian  Garnets 

and  whose  capture  is  only  an  incident  of  profes- 
sional routine. 

M.  Joly  sometimes  obeyed  impulses,  but  he 
did  not  wait  for  them;  nor  did  he  trust  to  chance. 
He  began,  therefore,  a  careful  investigation  of 
No.  219  Rue  Saint-Denis.  Within  a  week  the 
name,  age,  occupation,  associates,  habits  of  its 
every  occupant  were  in  his  possession.  Among 
these  names  was  that  of  M.  Meller.  The  informa- 
tion concerning  the  latter  was  incomplete.  Was 
he  a  commercial  traveler?  For  he  was  to  be  seen 
only  for  a  few  days,  usually  about  the  middle  of 
the  month,  and  hi  the  interim  disappeared  com- 
pletely from  sight.  M.  Joly  contended  that  his 
best  thoughts  came,  not  logically  from  established 
facts,  but  from  God  knows  where  —  motherless 
and  fatherless  offspring.  It  was  thus  that  the  idea 
came  to  him  to  call  upon  M.  Meller  on  the  i2th 
of  the  month.  He  treated  this  idea  at  first  with 
contempt,  then  with  incredulity,  and  finally,  see- 
ing that  it  refused  to  depart,  he  adopted  and  jus- 
tified it.  Madame  Dufresnes  had  delivered  the 
message  on  that  date  —  M.  Meller  was  in  the 
habit  of  returning  the  middle  of  the  month  — 
and  about  the  Japanese  coin  were  twelve  Russian 
garnets.  His  ordinary  procedure  would  have  been 
....  123  -. 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

to  examine  M.  Meller's  room  in  his  absence.  One 
often  obtains  interesting  information  from  a  room 
whose  tenant  is  absent.  But  he  resisted  this  temp- 
tation, and  on  the  morning  of  the  1 2th  descended 
the  slope  of  the  Boulevard  and  turned  into  the 
Rue  Saint-Denis.  Believing  with  Napoleon  that 
Providence  is  on  the  side  of  the  stronger  batta- 
lions, he  took  with  him  two  agents  of  the  secret 
service. 

Yes,  M.  Meller  occupied  a  room  on  the  court, 
the  fourth  floor.  Yes,  M.  Meller  was  in.  "Shall 
I  accompany  monsieur?"  added  the  concierge. 

"I  don't  need  you,"  said  M.  Joly. 

"Very  well  —  the  second  door  from  the  land- 
ing, on  the  left." 

At  the  head  of  the  stairs,  M.  Joly  said  to  the 
agents:  "You  will  remain  in  the  corridor.  Should 
I  need  you,  I  will  call. " 

At  the  door  he  knocked  gently. 

"Come  in,"  said  a  voice. 

He  turned  the  knob,  went  in,  and  closed  the 
door  behind  him.  A  man  was  sitting  at  a  table, 
reading.  M.  Joly  observed  him  attentively  —  a 
slight  figure,  narrow-chested,  with  stooping  shoul- 
ders, reassuringly  insignificant.  On  the  pale  face, 
however,  was  written  tenacity  and  resolution. 
....  124  •••• 


The  Twelve  Green  Russian  Garnets 

"  Monsieur  Meller?" 

"That  is  my  name." 

M.  Joly  took  out  his  pocketbook.  He  had  quite 
the  manner  of  a  lawyer  announcing  to  some  poor 
devil  an  unexpected  legacy. 

"Permit  me  to  sit  down,"  he  said,  drawing  a 
chair  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  table.  "I  have 
a  message  for  you."  At  the  sight  of  the  garnet 
pin  the  man  started,  but  said  nothing.  "Here  it 
is."  M.  Joly  released  the  spring  carefully  and 
took  out  a  small  roll  of  paper. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  man,  without  moving. 

"  But,  monsieur,  I  beg  you  to  examine  it.  Such 
were  my  instructions." 

The  man  hesitated,  then  opened  the  roll.  As 
he  proceeded  his  face  assumed  a  deadly  pallor  — 
the  paper  was  a  blank.  He  sprang  trembling  to 
his  feet. 

"Sit  down,  monsieur,"  said  M.  Joly,  taking  a 
pistol  from  his  pocket  and  laying  it  on  the  table 
before  him.  The  man  uttered  a  groan  that  was 
terrible.  He  was  not  looking  at  M.  Joly.  He  ap- 
peared to  be  invoking  an  invisible  presence. 

"  Sit  down, "  thundered  M.  Joly.  "  Do  you  wish 
me  to  put  a  hole  through  you?" 

"If  you  wish,  fire."  The  voice  was  that  of  a 
....  125  .-. 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

man  indifferent  to  consequences,  because  hope- 
lessly trapped.  At  the  same  instant  he  carried 
his  hand  quickly  to  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

"Ah,  wretch!"  shouted  M.  Joly,  dashing  aside 
the  table  and  seizing  the  man's  wrist.  "Help! 
help!" 

At  his  cry  the  agents  burst  open  the  door.  To 
their  amazement  they  saw  a  man,  his  arms  pin- 
ioned to  his  sides,  in  the  strong  grasp  of  their 
chief.  The  next  moment  this  man  lay  panting 
on  the  floor,  helpless,  handcuffed,  his  feet  bound. 
Beside  him  was  a  broken  vial  from  which  exhaled 
the  bitter  odor  of  almonds. 

"Darnel"  muttered  M.  Joly,  wiping  the  per- 
spiration from  his  brow,  "here  is  another  who 
came  near  having  a  weak  heart. " 

"You  are  hurt,  Monsieur  1'Inspecteur? " 

He  shook  them  off  roughly.  "Ah,  rascal!" 
apostrophizing  the  figure  on  the  floor,  "we  nearly 
made  a  mess  of  it. "  He  examined  the  room  fever- 
ishly —  the  closet,  in  which  hung  only  an  over- 
coat, a  wooden  box  studded  with  nails,  contain- 
ing a  few  insignificant  articles  of  wearing  apparel. 
The  drawer  of  the  table  was  empty,  the  book,  a 
second-hand  copy  of  "Monte  Cristo."  Watch- 
ing these  proceedings,  the  man  on  the  floor  smiled. 
....  I26  .... 


The  Twelve  Green  Russian  Garnets 

In  his  pockets  —  nothing.  Beside  the  broken  vial 
lay  the  garnet  pin  and  near  by  the  pistol.  M. 
Joly  replaced  these  in  the  deep  pocket  of  his  over- 
coat. Then  he  sat  down,  in  his  customary  atti- 
tude, his  hands  clasped  over  his  waistcoat.  His 
little  plan  had  miscarried.  He  had  expected  to 
discover  something,  and  he  had  discovered  noth- 
ing. Often  perplexed,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
career  he  was  bewildered.  But  he  understood 
now  the  sudden  death  of  Madame  Raymonde. 
What  people!  to  bar  with  their  own  bodies,  like 
desperate  defenders  of  a  fortress,  the  approach  of 
the  enemy.  And  this  fortress  which  they  de- 
fended, what  did  it  contain? 

The  man's  eyes  were  closed  now.  M.  Joly,  who 
had  put  on  his  hat,  took  it  off,  gazing  at  the  pale 
face  with  involuntary  respect. 

A  timid  knock  interrupted  his  reflections. 
Opening  the  door,  he  saw  his  own  servant. 

"  Monsieur,  madame  wishes  me  to  tell  you  that 
Monsieur  le  Prefet  has  sent  for  you,  and  that  it 
is  urgent. " 

"Good,"  replied  M.  Joly  gruffly,  shutting  the 
door  in  the  girl's  face. 

Although  her  husband  had  never  received  that 
thrust  of  the  knife  in  the  back,  the  fear  of  which 
....  127  .- 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

often  kept  Madame  Joly  awake  while  her  con- 
sort was  watering  the  flowers  of  "Monrepos," 
yet  she  had  never  permitted  him  to  leave  his 
apartment  without  extracting  from  him  the  secret 
of  his  destination.  While  she  was  brushing  his 
coat  and  straightening  his  cravat,  there  invari- 
ably occurred  the  following  colloquy:  "At  what 
time  will  you  return?  "  "  Really,  now,  how  should 
I  know?"  "You  are  going' — ?"  "How  can  I 
tell!  you  know  very  well — "  "But  if  any  one 
should  inquire  for  you."  "True,"  and  here  M. 
Joly  would  confess  his  destination;  after  which 
madame  would  say,  "Be  prudent,"  and  he  would 
answer,  "Assuredly."  It  was  thus  that  the  mes- 
sage from  the  prefect  came  to  be  delivered  in  the 
Rue  Saint-Denis. 

"Remain  here,  touch  nothing,"  he  said  to  the 
agents,  "and"  —  pointing  to  the  body  on  the 
floor  —  "pay  attention;  he  is  capable  of  some- 
thing. I  will  go  for  the  authorities. " 

On  the  way  to  the  prefecture  he  was  alternately 
elated  and  depressed.  He  held  the  end  of  a  thread, 
that  was  certain;  but  he  did  not  know  where  it 
led.  What  did  M.  Levigne  want  of  him?  Usually 
a  summons  of  this  kind  meant  some  delicate  mis- 
sion. It  was  impossible  that  it  should  have  any 
....  128  •••• 


The  Twelve  Green  Russian  Garnets 

connection  with  the  events  which  had  just  tran- 
spired, and  to  be  interrupted  in  this  manner,  at  a 
critical  moment,  annoyed  him.  He  knew  that 
the  prefect  thought  well  of  him.  He  was  not  sur- 
prised, then,  when  his  name  was  announced,  to 
hear  the  familiar  words:  "  Ah,  it  is  Monsieur  Joly. 
Let  him  enter. " 

M.  Levigne  was  writing.  He  did  not  look  up, 
nor  did  he  cease  writing.  In  the  far  corner  of  the 
room  sat  a  woman,  to  whom,  as  etiquette  re- 
quired, M.  Joly  paid  no  attention.  The  silence, 
broken  only  by  the  scratching  of  the  quill  pen, 
was  disconcerting.  It  was  a  reception  to  which 
he  was  not  accustomed. 

"It  seems,"  said  M.  Levigne,  at  length,  "that 
you  are  interested  in  the  affair  of  the  Impasse 
Bertrand. " 

"The  devil!"  thought  M.  Joly,  "the  place  was 
watched. " 

"That  in  your  leisure  moments"  —  M.  Joly 
winced  at  the  fine  note  of  irony  in  the  prefect's 
voice  —  "  you  are  making  inquiries  for  a  woman 
who  disappeared  there.  Well"  —  with  a  wave  of 
the  pen  to  the  figure  behind  him  —  "  here  she  is. " 

M.  Joly  began  to  understand  why  the  disap- 
pearance of  this  woman  had  failed  to  excite  the 
....  I29  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

zeal  of  the  police.  He  began  also  to  realize  the 
excess  of  his  own.  It  was  an  excellent  opportun- 
ity, however,  to  display  his  mastery  of  surprise, 
therefore  he  remained  immobile  and  silent. 

"We  are  not  so  stupid  here."  For  the  first 
time  M.  Levigne  laid  down  his  pen  and,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  inspector. 
"I  repeat,  we  are  not  so  stupid  here  as  some  ap- 
pear to  believe.  We  do  not  run  after  our  own 
agents.  Furthermore,  we  have  better  employ- 
ment for  your  leisure."  He  paused,  as  if  to  al- 
low these  words  to  sink  the  deeper  into  M.  Joly's 
consciousness.  A  vision  of  "Monrepos"  reced- 
ing into  the  distance  passed  before  the  latter's 
eyes.  "These  preliminaries  being  settled,"  re- 
sumed M.  Levigne,  taking  up  a  memorandum 
from  his  desk,  "let  us  pass  to  certain  facts  of 
which  you  are  ignorant.  On  the  2d  of  May 
it  came  to  our  knowledge  that  the  Paris  repre- 
sentative of  the  Russian  police  was  selected  for 
assassination;  that  a  member  of  the  Central  Com- 
mittee in  St.  Petersburg,  with  instructions  for  its 
agent  here,  would  arrive  by  the  express  of  the 
5th.  Unfortunately  this  person  — " 

"Madame  Raymonde!"  muttered  M.  Joly, 
under  his  breath. 

....  130  — 


The  Twelve  Green  Russian  Garrets 

"What  do  you  say?" 

"I  said,  'I  understand,'  Monsieur  le  Prefet." 

"Unfortunately  this  person  left  the  train  be- 
yond the  frontier  and  for  a  time  eluded  us  — 
madame  will  explain  to  you  in  what  manner.  We 
had  counseled  our  Russian  colleague  to  go  and 
amuse  himself  elsewhere  for  a  tune.  But  he  has 
returned,  and  it  seems  the  farce  is  about  to  re- 
commence. It  would  be  mortifying  to  invite  this 
gentleman  to  take  so  soon  another  vacation. 
What  you  have  to  do  is  to  discover  and  appre- 
hend this  agent.  I  say  apprehend,  for  these  peo- 
ple have  an  inconvenient  way  of  eluding  the  in- 
terrogations of  justice.  Madame,  here,  has  given 
us  a  body  —  what  we  want  is  a  man. " 

"I  have  both,"  said  M.  Joly. 

"You  have  both!  What  do  you  mean? " 

"I  mean,  Monsieur  le  Prefet,  that  the  agent 
you  seek  is  called  Meller;  that  at  this  moment  he 
lies  on  the  floor  of  a  room  in  the  Rue  Saint- 
Denis,  No.  219,  bound  hand  and  foot  and  is  at 
your  service." 

•  "Not  possible!"  exclaimed  the  prefect,  less 
skillful  than  his  subordinate  in  mastering  sur- 
prise. "  Explain  yourself. " 

Concisely,  modestly,  as  if  making  a  cornmon- 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

place  report,  M.  Joly  related  the  story  of  the 
green  garnets  from  the  hour  when  he  first  saw 
them  dangling  from  the  shelf  in  M.  Perrin's  win- 
dow till,  having  finished  his  recital,  he  laid  them 
respectfully  on  the  prefect's  desk. 

M.  Levigne  examined  them  attentively,  re- 
leased the  spring,  and  closed  it  again,  with  a  deep 
sigh  of  mingled  relief  and  astonishment. 

"You  have  done  a  good  piece  of  work,  Mon- 
sieur Joly.  For  the  present  this  belongs  to  the 
State.  But  we  shall  not  forget  you." 

"Monsieur  le  Prefet,"  said  M.  Joly,  twisting 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  "  if  I  might  repeat  a  remark 
you  have  just  deigned  to  make  — " 

"  Repeat  it." 

"  That  we  are  not  so  stupid  here  as  some  would 
appear  to  believe." 


VI 

AURELIE 

O  OME  months  before  her  death  the  Countess 
v.^  Anne  gave  to  Antoine,  the  child  of  Pere 
Bigot,  chief  of  the  wood-cutters  of  Freyr,  a 
wooden  soldier.  Antoine  was  far  too  young  at 
that  time  to  play  with  so  brave  a  toy,  and  later, 
after  the  countess's  death,  it  became  far  too 
sacred  a  relic  of  that  lady  of  blessed  memory  to 
be  put  to  any  common  use.  And  thus  it  happened 
that  it  stood  year  after  year  on  the  black  shelf 
above  Antoine's  bed,  beside  the  blue-robed  im- 
age of  the  Virgin,  and  in  Antoine's  eyes,  being 
thus  enshrined  within  the  halo  of  forbidden  things, 
acquired  a  sanctity  equal  to  that  of  the  Holy 
Virgin  herself. 

It  was  a  very  martial  soldier,  erect  and  reso- 
lute of  mien,  its  musket,  the  butt  of  which  rested 
beside  one  gaitered  foot,  pressed  firmly  against 
the  right  shoulder,  and  having  to  Antoine  the 
appearance  of  being  loaded  and  ready  for  action. 

Now  one  morning  when  Pere  Bigot,  having 
finished  his  breakfast,  was  lighting  his  pipe  pre- 
....  I33  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

paratory  to  going  to  the  wood,  and  Antoine  was 
being  dressed,  something  very  remarkable  oc- 
curred. Mere  Bigot  was  buttoning  his  blue  blouse, 
and  Antoine,  standing  on  the  bed,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  wooden  soldier,  his  lips  close  to  his  mother's 
ear,  whispered:  — 

"Mother,  it  talks." 

"Eh?"  said  Mere  Bigot,  struggling  with  an 
obstinate  button  which  refused  to  enter  its  hole. 

"It  talks,"  repeated  Antoine. 

" What  talks,  my  child?" 

"The  soldier  of  the  Countess  Anne." 

Madame  Bigot  first  looked  at  Antoine  in  alarm, 
then  she  laughed. 

"What  does  the  child  say?"  asked  Pere  Bigot, 
taking  his  axe  from  its  nail. 

"He  says  the  soldier  of  the  countess  talks. " 

"What  an  idea!"  said  the  wood-cutter,  and  he 
went  out  the  door  chuckling  to  himself  at  so  droll 
a  thought. 

"It  is  at  night,  is  it  not?"  said  Mere  Bigot. 

Antoine  nodded. 

"It  is  one  of  the  dreams  the  good  Virgin  sends 
to  well-behaved  children,"  said  his  mother;  and 
reassured  by  this  inspiration  she  went  about  her 
morning's  work. 

....  134  .... 


Aurelie 

Antoine  was  silent.  He  knew  better,  but  be- 
ing wise  of  his  years,  knew  better  also  than  to 
argue  the  question. 

When  he  was  eight  years  old  misfortune  came. 
His  mother  died,  and  within  a  month  Pere  Bigot 
was  killed  by  a  falling  tree  in  the  great  forest  of 
Freyr,  and  Aunt  Pelagic  reigned  hi  their  stead. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  Mademoiselle  Pelagic  had 
never  known  the  pangs  of  motherhood  that  she 
had  so  little  of  a  mother's  sympathy.  Be  that  as 
it  may,  Antoine  gave  little  love  where  little  was 
asked,  and  became  more  passionately  attached 
to  the  one  companion  left  him.  Every  day  he 
looked  forward  to  the  coming  night;  for  when  the 
house  was  still,  the  little  wooden  soldier  laid  down 
his  musket,  unslung  his  heavy  goatskin  knap- 
sack, and  after  carefully  placing  his  big  black 
shako  beside  it,  drew  his  pipe  from  his  pocket  and 
sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  mantel,  his  red-trous- 
ered legs  dangling  in  space. 

"Be  careful  not  to  fall,"  Antoine  would  some- 
times say. 

"Be  tranquil;  I  am  accustomed  to  precipices," 
the  wooden  soldier  would  answer. 

When  his  pipe  was  well  lighted,  he  usually  be- 
gan by  saying:  — 


cDiane  and  Her  Friends 

"Antoine,  are  you  asleep?" 

"No,  Monsieur  Nicolas,"  Antoine  would  whis- 
per under  his  breath,  for  Aunt  Pelagic  slept  in 
the  bed  the  other  side  of  the  Virgin.  Why  he 
called  the  wooden  soldier  Nicolas  came  about  in 
this  way:  He  had  often  heard  his  father  speak  of 
an  uncle  of  that  name  who  was  killed  at  Sedan, 
and  having  mentioned  this  fact  one  night,  and 
finding  it  inconvenient  to  converse  with  a  soldier 
who  had  no  name,  he  said:  — 

"I  would  like  to  call  you  Nicolas,  mon- 
sieur." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  wooden  soldier;  "when 
a  man  is  dead  a  name  is  a  matter  of  no  im- 
port. " 

"Are  you  really  dead?"  asked  Antoine. 

"Most  certainly,"  replied  Nicolas.  "I  was 
killed  at  Marengo.  That  is  to  be  regretted,"  he 
added,  sighing.  "I  should  like  to  have  seen 
Austerlitz." 

"Did  it  hurt  you  very  much?"  inquired  An- 
toine. 

"There  are  worse  things,  my  child. " 

"Will  you  tell  me  about  one  of  them,  Mon- 
sieur Nicolas?" 

"Willingly." 

....  136  ..- 


. 


f  r 


I   AM    ACCUSTOMED   TO    PRECIPICES 


Aurelie 

Thereupon  Antoine  folded  his  hands  above  the 
counterpane  and  composed  himself  to  listen. 

"I  was  born  on  the  i4th  of  July,  the  day  of  the 
taking  of  the  Bastille,  but  fifteen  years  before, 
in  the  year  1774.  My  mother  was  a  very  pious 
woman,  who  kept  a  statue  of  the  Virgin  above 
her  bed,  as  you  do.  That  is  why  I  am  content  to 
stand  so  many  years  on  this  shelf  beside  this  im- 
age —  not  because  I  have  any  particular  affec- 
tion for  the  Virgin,  but  because  I  am  reminded 
of  many  things  which  no  longer  exist  except  in 
memory. " 

"But  do  you  not  love  the  Virgin?"  interrupted 
Antoine. 

"I  am  a  practical  man,"  replied  the  wooden 
soldier;  "therefore  I  concern  myself  only  with 
what  is  to  be  seen." 

"  But, "  interrupted  Antoine  again,  "  the  Virgin 
is  sometimes  to  be  seen.  I  have  heard  my  mother 
say  so  often." 

"That  is  possible,"  said  Nicolas,  shifting  one 
leg  over  the  other  and  pressing  the  tobacco  down 
into  the  bowl  of  his  pipe.  "I  will  not  deny  that 
of  which  I  know  nothing.  On  that  point  you  must 
consult  Mademoiselle  Pelagic.  I  have  noticed 
that  women  are  more  versed  in  such  matters,  and 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

very  probably  she  has  some  experience.  Without 
experience  it  is  impossible  to  affirm  or  even  to 
invent  anything  worth  listening  to." 

"It  must  be  Aunt  Pelagic  has  no  experience," 
replied  Antoine,  after  a  moment  of  reflection, 
"for  she  never  tells  me  any  stories." 

The  epaulettes  of  the  wooden  soldier  trembled 
with  laughter. 

"I  would  not  address  her  on  that  subject,"  he 
said.  "The  lack  of  experience  is  something  of 
which  ladies  of  her  condition  do  not  like  to  be 
reminded.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  when  I  was 
nineteen  years  of  age  I  fell  in  love.  You  have  not 
yet  fallen  in  love,  Antoine?" 

"I  think  not,  monsieur.  Should  I  do  so?" 

"As  to  that  matter  there  are  various  opinions. 
It  is  certain  that  without  that  experience  you  will 
remain  in  ignorance  of  many  things,  like  Made- 
moiselle Pelagic.  However,  should  you  do  so,  have 
a  care.  It  is  a  serious  business. " 

"I  will  recollect  what  you  say,"  replied  An- 
toine submissively. 

"When  that  malady  attacks  you,    you  will 

know  it.  Yet  it  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world 

to  fall  in  love.  It  seems  only  yesterday, "  pursued 

the  wooden  soldier,  laying  down  his  pipe,  "  that 

-..   138  -. 


Aurelie 

I  was  walking  down  Rue  de  Petit  Savoyard. 
There  was  a  pastry-shop  on  the  corner  of  Rue 
de  la  Tourelle  —  so  called  because  of  a  little 
turret  which  ornamented  one  of  its  houses.  I  was 
looking  at  the  big  gingerbread  cakes,  made  with 
honey  and  stuffed  with  nuts,  when  Aurelie  stopped 
also  before  the  same  window.  I  knew  her  name, 
because  presently  the  old  servant  who  accom- 
panied her  said,  'Mademoiselle  Aurelie,  we  shall 
be  late. '  I  turned  to  see  whom  she  was  addressing, 
and  at  that  moment  Aurelie  turned  also.  We 
gazed  into  each  other's  eyes  the  time  it  would 
take  to  discharge  my  musket,  not  more  —  and 
instantly  I  was  in  love.  So  was  Aurelie.  She  told 
me  such  was  the  case  afterward.  There  are  mo- 
ments in  one's  life  so  charged  with  wonderful 
revelations  that  we  return  to  them  again  and 
again  in  the  vain  endeavor  to  understand  their 
full  meaning.  I  swear  to  you,  Antoine,  that  if  I 
had  never  seen  those  blue  eyes  again,  the  look 
which  they  lodged  in  my  heart  would  have  re- 
mained to  this  day,  like  the  bullet  which  I  have 
carried  in  my  leg  since  Rivoli.  Some  day  I  will 
relate  to  you  how  I  received  that  bullet. " 

"To-night  I  prefer  to  hear  about  Mademoiselle 
Aurelie,  Monsieur  Nicolas,"  said  Antoine  softly. 
....  139  .... 


T)iane  and  Her  Friends 

"It  is  very  difficult  to  describe  her  to  you," 
continued  the  wooden  soldier.  "I  have  here"  — 
he  tapped  his  tightly  buttoned  coat  —  "her  min- 
iature, which  I  would  gladly  show  you  if  it  were 
possible  to  light  a  candle  without  waking  Made- 
moiselle Pelagie.  But  to  know  Aurelie  a  minia- 
ture is  not  sufficient.  One  must  know  her  soul, 
as  I  know  it."  And  in  the  darkness  Antoine 
heard  a  deep  sigh. 

"But,  monsieur,"  he  ventured,  "you  said  you 
concerned  yourself  only  with  what  is  to  be  seen. " 

"Are  we  to  converse  on  that  subject,  or  shall 
I  continue  my  story?"  said  the  wooden  soldier 
severely. 

"Excuse  me,  Monsieur  Nicolas,"  said  An- 
toine. 

"You  foresee,  doubtless,  that  I  followed 
Aurelie,  at  a  respectful  distance.  She  did  not 
turn  her  head;  nevertheless  it  seems  she  knew 
of  my  presence.  Of  all  these  things  we  talked 
in  confidence  afterward.  To  my  surprise  I  dis- 
covered she  lived  within  a  stone's  throw  of  my 
father's.  It  happens  often  that  one's  joy  or  one's 
woe  is  a  near  neighbor  when  one  does  not  sus- 
pect it. 

"The  course  of  our  love  ran  very  smoothly. 
....  140  •••• 


Aurelie 

Aurelie  had  no  mother,  and  her  father,  being  a 
savant,  lived  very  retired,  immersed  in  his  re- 
searches. These  circumstances  aided  us  greatly. 
The  house  in  which  she  lived  was  situated  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  city.  Behind  it  was  a  garden, 
through  which  a  straight  walk,  bordered  with 
acacias,  led  to  a  small  pavilion  on  the  edge  of  a 
stream  which  was  shadowed  by  willows,  and  be- 
yond which  stretched  meadows  where  cattle  were 
pastured.  It  was  a  spot  made  for  lovers.  A 
wooden  bench,  sheltered  by  climbing  vines,  rested 
against  the  wall  of  the  pavilion,  which  was  of 
two  stories,  and  I  soon  ascertained  that  it  was  the 
habit  of  Aurelie  to  sit  on  this  bench  while  her 
father  was  occupied  hi  the  room  above  with  his 
studies.  I  also  contracted  the  habit  of  coming  to 
this  spot  in  my  skiff,  and  of  passing  the  evening 
with  Aurelie.  In  those  days  I  was  called  Louis. 
The  first  time  when,  on  approaching  the  spot,  I 
said  'Mademoiselle,'  very  softly,  she  replied, 
'Is  it  you,  Monsieur  Louis?' 

"You  are  not  asleep,  Antoine?" 

"No,  monsieur,"  replied  Antoine. 

"Well,  then,  I  wish  to  observe  to  you  that 
probably  when  Mademoiselle  Pelagic  gives  you 
advice  on  the  subject  of  love,  she  will  have  much 
....  141  .... 


T)iane  and  Her  Friends 

to  say  upon  the  propriety  which  a  young  lady 
should  maintain  on  such  occasions.  But  do  not 
give  too  much  weight  to  what  she  will  say.  When 
love  is  innocent,  like  Aurelie's,  everything  is  per- 
mitted. I  remember,  for  example,  on  that  first 
evening  she  said,  'Be  careful,  Monsieur  Louis, 
the  step  is  covered  with  moss  and  is  very  slippery.' 
Do  you  think  I  reproached  her  because  she  thus 
naively  invited  me?  Not  at  all.  The  thought 
ravished  me.  We  sat  a  long  time  in  silence  —  a 
silence  in  which  nevertheless  we  said  many  things 
to  each  other.  I  think  we  did  not  speak  at  all 
until  she  said,  'It  is  time  to  retire,  Monsieur 
Louis. ' 

"After  a  certain  number  of  nights  I  dared  to 
touch  her  hand  —  a  little  hand,  very  soft  and 
warm,  whose  touch  was  heaven  to  me.  Sometimes 
Monsieur  Lebrun,  her  father,  would  open  the 
window  above  and  say:  'Aurelie,  I  shall  remain 
late  this  evening.  You  had  best  go  to  bed. '  Some- 
times the  old  servant  would  appear  at  the  door 
at  the  end  of  the  path  with  a  lighted  candle  and 
say:  'Mademoiselle  Aurelie,  you  will  take  a  cold. 
It  is  more  prudent  to  come  indoors. '  Ah,  those 
moments  of  parting,  how  sweet  they  were!" 

The  wooden  soldier  took  so  long  a  breath  at 
_....  142  .... 


Aurelie 

this  point  that  Antoine  feared  he  was  about  to 
resume  his  shako  and  musket. 

"Love  like  ours,  my  child,  proceeds  rapidly. 
It  is  impossible  to  resist  it.  Having  once  pos- 
sessed myself  of  Aurelie's  hand,  I  wished  to  pos- 
sess myself  of  everything  that  was  hers;  and  in  the 
darkness  of  those  summer  nights  we  sat  clasped 
in  each  other's  embrace,  forgetting  that  there  was 
any  other  world  but  ours,  or  any  other  heaven 
than  that  of  our  lips  and  the  pressure  of  our 
arms. 

"One  evening,  as  I  heard  the  stream  gliding 
by  so  swiftly  and  so  silently,  I  thought  that  life, 
too,  was  passing  in  the  same  inexorable  manner. 

" '  Aurelie, '  I  said, '  I  am  going  to  ask  my  father 
to  demand  your  hand  in  marriage. ' 

"Until  that  moment  the  thought  of  marriage 
had  not  occurred  to  us,  and  I  was  astonished  at 
the  change  which  my  observation  wrought  in  her. 
She  slipped  from  my  arms  without  a  word  and 
vanished  so  quickly  that  I  scarce  heard  her  foot- 
steps on  the  gravel  of  the  path.  The  next  even- 
ing she  did  not  come,  nor  the  next.  I  was  des- 
perate, and  my  despair  gave  me  courage  to  speak 
to  my  father. 

"I  seized  upon  an  occasion  when  my  mother 
....  143  .... 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

was  present,  for  I  had  already  confided  to  her  my 
secret  and  counted  upon  her  support. 

"'My  father,'  I  said,  'I  beg  of  you  to  request 
of  Monsieur  Lebrun  the  hand  of  his  daughter. ' 

"After  what  seemed  to  me  an  eternity,  and 
after  exchanging  a  glance  with  my  mother  which 
implied  some  previous  understanding,  he  re- 
plied: — 

"'Mademoiselle  Aurelie  is  a  respectable  girl. 
I  will  speak  to  Monsieur  Lebrun  on  the  subject, 
and  if  she  is  favorably  disposed  and  he  is  in- 
clined to  make  suitable  provision,  we  have  no 
objection.  You  are  of  an  age  to  establish  your- 
self.' 

"'I  should  be  quite  pleased  to  have  for  a 
daughter  a  person  so  modest  and  well  behaved,' 
said  my  mother. 

"I  pressed  her  to  my  breast  for  joy.  'Do  not 
take  this  too  much  to  heart, '  she  said,  seeing  my 
emotion;  'between  wishing  and  having  many 
things  are  possible.'" 

The  wooden  soldier  had  risen  to  his  feet  and 
was  walking  to  and  fro  before  the  image  of  the 
Virgin. 

"Ah,  my  dear  mother,"  he  exclaimed,  "what 
sinister  foreboding  possessed  your  soul  at  that 
....  144  .... 


Aurelie 

moment!  Antoine,"  he  continued,  stopping  just 
above  the  bed  at  the  end  of  the  shelf,  "when  no 
cloud  obscures  the  sky,  when  your  heart  is  burst- 
ing with  happiness,  and  evil  seems  incredible, 
have  a  care!  Fortune  is  about  to  play  you  a 
trick." 

Antoine  made  no  answer,  but  he  shivered 
under  the  bedclothes. 

"You  will  not  be  surprised  when  I  tell  you  that 
Aurelie  had  had  other  suitors.  Rivals  are  not 
generally  included  among  those  things  to  which 
love  is  blind.  But  they  did  not  trouble  me.  Ab- 
sorbed in  my  own  happiness  and  the  certainty  of 
Aurelie,  the  rest  of  the  world  was  as  if  it  did  not 
exist.  As  I  have  told  you,  I  was  born  in  1774.  At 
the  time  of  which  I  speak  I  was  nineteen  years  of 
age.  When  you  have  mastered  the  science  of 
numbers,"  said  the  wooden  soldier,  counting  his 
fingers,  "you  will  find  it  was  therefore  the  year 
1793.  In  that  year  every  man's  hand  was  turned 
against  his  neighbor  in  the  name  of  fraternity, 
and  tyrants  preached  the  equality  of  man.  It  is 
fortunate  for  you  that  you  live  in  days  of  peace 
and  tranquillity.  When  you  are  older  you  will 
study  that  uprising  of  a  nation  and  lament  all 
those  follies  which  stained  the  purity  of  its  ambi- 
....  145  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

tion  and  divided  with  the  sublimest  deeds  the 
energy  which  so  astonished  the  world.  Our  city 
of  Lyons  had  revolted  against  the  sanguinary 
policy  of  the  Jacobins,  but  had  at  last  been  forced 
to  open  its  gates  to  the  armies  of  the  Convention. 
And  then  came  that  monster  of  modern  times, 
Couthon,  to  carry  into  execution  the  decree  of 
the  Convention,  Lyons  is  no  morel 

"Both  Monsieur  Lebrun  and  my  father  were  in 
too  modest  circumstances  to  fear  the  rage  of  par- 
ties, but  so  great  was  the  injustice  of  those  times 
and  so  insecure  the  life  of  the  humblest  citizen  that 
we  thought  it  more  prudent  to  retire  to  a  small 
vineyard  which  we  possessed  in  a  remote  suburb 
of  the  city.  I  had  begged  permission  of  my 
mother  for  Aurelie  to  take  refuge  with  us,  and  it 
was  arranged  that  after  accompanying  my  par- 
ents to  the  country  I  should  return  for  her.  We 
had  no  difficulty  in  reaching  the  small  farmhouse 
situated  among  my  father's  vines,  for  we  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  making  frequent  journeys  to  and 
fro,  and  this  custom  was  well  known  to  the  au- 
thorities. So,  the  morning  after  our  arrival,  leav- 
ing my  father  as  a  protection  for  my  mother 
should  that  need  arise,  I  set  out  for  Lyons  in  our 
high  two-wheeled  cart  with  the  peasant  who  cul- 
....  146  .... 


Aurelie 

tivated  the  vineyard.  You  can  imagine  with 
what  happiness  I  snapped  my  long  whip  as  we 
jogged  along  the  white  road,  and  with  what  joy 
I  anticipated  the  presence  of  Aurelie  under  our 
own  roof,  as  if  already  the  priest  had  united  us 
and  I  were  bringing  my  bride  to  my  fireside. 
Monsieur  Lebrun,  although  my  father  reminded 
him  that  he  had  once  dedicated,  by  royal  per- 
mission, a  treatise  to  the  late  king,  had  refused 
to  abandon  his  investigations  and  was  to  remain 
in  the  city. 

"You  might  suppose  that,  in  times  such  as 
those  through  which  we  were  passing,  all  the  ordi- 
nary avocations  of  life  would  be  suspended;  that 
men  and  women,  terrified  by  so  much  slaughter, 
would  hide  themselves.  But  it  was  not  so.  Women 
chatted  in  the  doorways  when  heads  were  falling 
on  the  scaffold,  and  only  on  certain  days  of  ex- 
ceptional madness  did  the  shopkeepers  lower 
their  shutters,  waiting  behind  closed  doors  for  the 
storm  to  pass.  It  was  on  one  of  those  days  that  I 
returned  to  Lyons  for  Aurelie.  Couthon  had  al- 
ready begun  his  work  of  extermination,  and  as 
we  drew  near  the  city  gate  we  met  long  files  of 
wretches,  chained  together,  whose  clamor  the 
grapeshot  of  his  cannon  was  soon  to  silence  — 
....  147  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

for  the  guillotine  was  too  slow  for  his  vengeance. 
We  passed,  however,  through  this  tumult  in 
safety  and  came  at  last  to  my  father's  house,  on 
whose  walls  I  observed  with  amazement  were 
written  the  words,  '  This  house  to  let. '  '  What  is 
the  meaning  of  these  inscriptions? '  I  asked  of  a 
citizen  standing  near,  for  I  saw  that  other  houses 
also  bore  the  same  words.  'It  is  the  new  method 
of  announcing  that  the  owners  of  these  houses 
have  no  further  use  for  them, '  laughed  the  wretch. 
I  leaped  from  the  cart  and  ran  with  all  speed  to 
Aurelie's  door.  The  same  dread  words  were  writ- 
ten on  its  portal.  A  frenzy  of  fear  and  rage  seized 
me.  I  hurled  myself  against  the  door.  It  was 
bolted.  I  beat  upon  it  with  both  hands  — " 

A  loud  crash,  which  almost  stopped  the  beat- 
ing of  Antoine's  heart,  followed.  Had  the  wooden 
soldier  fallen  from  the  mantel?  Was  he  killed  for 
the  second  time?  Mademoiselle  Pelagic,  startled 
from  her  sleep,  had  sprung  from  her  bed,  and  in 
her  long  nightdress  and  blue  cotton  nightcap  was 
tremblingly  lighting  a  candle. 

Antoine,  scarcely  daring  to  look,  gazed  with 

the  fascination  of  fear  through  the  shadows  at  the 

mantel,  and  when  the  flame  of  the  candle  had 

become  steady,  there  stood  the  wooden  soldier, 

....  148  ..- 


Aurelie 

his  shako  on  his  head,  his  musket  pressed  firmly 
against  his  shoulder,  his  coat  tightly  buttoned 
over  the  miniature  of  Aurelie. 

"God  preserve  us!"  cried  Mademoiselle  Pela- 
gic. "  The  Blessed  Virgin  has  fallen  and  is  dashed 
into  a  thousand  pieces. " 

By  one  of  those  coincidences  which  give  rise  to 
the  idea  of  fate,  on  the  very  morning  of  the  fall 
of  the  Virgin  a  wandering  vender  of  images 
stopped  before  Mademoiselle  Pelagie's  door.  An- 
toine,  on  his  way  to  school,  had  met  this  erect 
figure,  bearing  aloft  its  tray  of  images,  under  the 
arcade  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  to  his  vivid  imag- 
ination it  seemed  as  if  one  of  the  caryatides  sculp- 
tured by  Jean  Goujon  for  the  chimney  of  the  great 
hall  in  the  Mairie  had  eluded  the  vigilance  of  the 
concierge  and  had  stepped  out  into  the  street 
with  its  frieze  of  dancing  figures  for  a  morning's 
walk.  All  the  heroes  of  history  and  legend  el- 
bowed one  another  on  the  carefully  poised  shelf; 
but  most  wonderful  of  all  was  a  Virgin  wearing  a 
mantle  studded  with  stars  and  having  a  golden 
aureole  about  her  head.  Mademoiselle  Pelagic 
had  just  removed  the  last  traces  of  the  night's 
tragedy  when  the  shadow  of  this  image  fell  upon 
....  149  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

her  threshold.  Certainly  it  was  nothing  less  than 
providential  that  almost  at  the  very  moment  she 
was  consigning  the  shattered  fragments  of  one 
Virgin  to  the  dust-heap  another  should  appear 
at  the  open  door.  Skilled  in  reading  the  eyes  of 
his  customers,  the  peddler  carefully  disengaged 
the  Holy  Mother  from  her  dangerous  position 
between  a  Cupid  and  a  Satyr  and,  glancing  about 
the  room,  observed  with  an  air  of  apparent  sur- 
prise:— 

"Madame  has  no  image  of  the  Blessed  Mary?  " 

"How  much  is  it?"  asked  Mademoiselle  Pela- 
gie,  who  was  of  a  practical  turn  of  mind. 

"A  mere  nothing  —  a  hundred  sous,"  replied 
the  peddler. 

Mademoiselle  Pelagie's  countenance  fell,  and 
she  straightway  began  to  busy  herself  at  her  oven 
as  if  the  matter  possessed  no  further  interest  for 
her. 

"Very  cheap  —  hundred  sous  —  very  fine  im- 
age, "  persisted  the  tempter. 

Mademoiselle  Pelagic  made  no  answer. 

"Look  very  nice  here,"  he  continued,  enthron- 
ing the  statue  on  the  now  empty  pedestal  beside 
the  wooden  soldier,  "very  nice.  You  look  here," 
he  exclaimed,  with  sudden  interest,  "you  no  want 


Aurelie 

soldier  —  soldier  no  good  —  you  give  me  soldier 
and  three  francs  —  I  give  you  Our  Lady. " 

Mademoiselle  Pelagic  closed  the  oven  door  and 
went  over  to  the  mantel. 

"  I  no  like  wooden  image  —  wooden  image  no 
good  —  I  only  wish  please  you. " 

Mademoiselle  Pelagic  was  reflecting.  Antoine 
was  certainly  too  old  now  to  care  for  such  a  toy. 
For  a  long  time,  it  is  true,  he  had  been  too  young 
to  appreciate  it.  That  this  reasoning  left  no  time 
at  all  for  him  to  possess  the  gift  of  his  benefactor 
did  not  occur  to  her.  The  sole  question  now  was 
to  make  a  good  bargain.  "  For  two  francs,  yes, " 
she  said,  crisply.  And  the  wily  son  of  the  South, 
who  was  also  a  good  bargainer,  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  smiled. 

"  Very  good  —  to  please  madame. " 

Thus  it  happened  that  the  wooden  soldier 
took  the  vacant  place  between  the  Satyr  of  Prax- 
iteles and  the  Cupid  of  Lysippus,  marched  down 
the  winding  street,  and,  after  a  glass  of  wine 
at  the  Sign  of  the  White  Fawn,  disappeared  with 
the  miniature  of  Aurelie  on  the  road  through  the 
meadows. 

Never  before  had  Antoine  so  studied  the  clock 
as  on  that  morning  at  school.  On  his  way  thither 


^Diane  and  Her  Friends 

he  heard  the  drum  of  the  town-crier  in  the  great 
square  and  saw  the  army  of  Couthon  defiling 
through  the  streets  of  Lyons.  He  had  lingered  for 
a  moment  before  the  gingerbread  cakes  in  the 
window  of  the  grocer,  with  an  occasional  wistful 
glance  behind  him,  as  if  at  any  instant  Aurelie 
might  suddenly  appear  at  his  elbow.  More  than 
half  of  the  Departments  of  France,  which  he 
usually  enumerated  so  glibly,  refused  that  morn- 
ing to  answer  the  roll-call,  and  the  figures  on  his 
slate  assumed  strange,  ungainly  shapes.  Never 
had  the  wooden  soldier  interrupted  a  narrative 
in  so  agonizing  a  manner,  and  in  spite  of  the  re- 
spect he  felt  for  the  Virgin  he  could  not  forgive 
her  for  taking  so  inopportune  a  moment  to  precip- 
itate herself  from  the  mantel.  Or  had  Monsieur 
Nicolas  himself  been  the  cause  of  the  catastrophe? 

"Antoine,"  exclaimed  his  teacher,  "pay  at- 
tention. You  are  dipping  your  pencil  in  the  ink- 
well." 

All  the  way  home  he  sang  happily,  for  half  the 
day  was  gone,  and  though  he  feared  what  he 
should  see  behind  that  door  on  which  Couthon 
had  inscribed  those  terrible  words,  "To  Let,"  as 
with  many  older  and  wiser  than  he  the  desire 
to  know  the  worst  was  irresistible.  His  first  glance 
....  152  •••• 


Aurelie 

on  his  return  was  for  Monsieur  Nicolas.  He  was 
gone!  For  an  instant  Antoine  remained  stupefied. 
Except  at  night  the  wooden  soldier  had  never 
before  moved  from  his  place.  Faithful  and  vigi- 
lant, like  a  sentry  at  his  post,  without  this  silent 
figure  the  room  no  longer  seemed  f amiliar.  There 
was,  moreover,  a  strange  Virgin  on  the  shelf.  He 
turned  a  bewildered  face  to  Mademoiselle  Pe- 
lagie. 

"Where  is  Monsieur  Nicolas?"  he  stammered. 

"Monsieur  who?"  said  his  aunt,  not  compre- 
hending. 

"The  soldier  of  the  Countess  Anne." 

"He  has  gone  to  take  a  promenade,"  replied 
Mademoiselle  Pelagic  evasively. 

Antoine  was  dumbfounded.  The  real  and  the 
unreal  danced  wildly  together  in  his  little  brain. 
A  vague  fear  began  to  take  possession  of  him, 
for  Mademoiselle  Pelagie's  manner  inspired  no 
confidence. 

"Come,  come,"  she  said,  at  the  sight  of  two 
gathering  tears  in  his  eyes,  "be  a  man!  Of  what 
use  is  a  wooden  soldier?" 

To  be  a  man!  he  desired  nothing  better.  All 
the  teaching  of  Monsieur  Nicolas  was  an  inspira- 
tion to  manhood.  Anger  began  to  swell  in  his 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

heart.  His  little  fists  were  clenched.  Be  a  man! 
Rage  made  him  one. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  Monsieur  Nicolas?  " 
he  demanded,  choking  back  the  sob  rising  in  his 
throat. 

"I  know  nothing  of  your  Monsieur  Nicolas," 
replied  Mademoiselle  Pelagic  tranquilly,  for  she 
much  preferred  anger  to  tears;  "but  if  you  mean 
that  ugly  little  soldier  of  the  Countess  Anne,  I 
have  exchanged  it  for  the  Virgin  you  see  on  the 
shelf.  Perhaps  you  will  cease  now  to  destroy 
things  in  your  sleep. " 

Antoine  did  not  even  notice  so  unjust  an  ac- 
cusation. The  one  friend  of  his  life  was  gone. 
Anguish  struggled  with  anger,  but  a  fixed  deter- 
mination began  to  take  shape  in  his  mind.  He 
remembered  now  the  Italian  peddler  seen  on  his 
way  to  school.  He  recalled  even  the  figure  of  the 
Virgin  whose  shining  aureole  had  towered  above 
the  head  of  Cupid.  The  whole  nefarious  transac- 
tion was  revealed  with  a  startling  lucidity. 

You  who  are  now  a  man,  accustomed  to  sor- 
row, to  whom  disappointment  is  no  stranger,  who 
can  now  sigh  when  formerly  you  cried  out,  and 
who  have  tamed  the  rebellious  crew  that  once 
threatened  your  reason,  recall  one  of  those  bitter 
,  ••••  154  •- 


Aurelie 

griefs  of  childhood  when  the  very  structure  of  the 
world  seemed  tottering  to  its  fall  with  the  loss  of  a 
wooden  soldier.  Yes,  he  would  be  a  man!  He 
would  follow  that  brigand  peddler  to  the  ends  of 
the  universe. 

"He  will  have  a  good  cry,"  thought  Made- 
moiselle Pelagic,  as  he  disappeared  through  the 
door,  "  then  all  will  be  over. " 

But  the  soup  grew  cold  and  Antoine  did  not 
return.  In  the  afternoon  it  began  to  rain.  As 
evening  approached,  alarm  rather  than  affection 
prompted  frequent  excursions  to  the  doorstep, 
where  Mademoiselle  Pelagie's  gaunt  figure  was 
to  be  seen  peering  into  the  gathering  darkness. 
"Have  you  seen  my  Antoine?"  she  asked  of  a 
neighbor.  And  again,  of  a  farmer  returning  from 
the  country,  "You  have  not  perchance  seen  a 
little  boy  with  a  brown  velvet  cap?"  No,  they 
had  seen  nothing.  While  eating  her  supper  in 
silence  a  kind  of  panic  seized  her.  After  all,  she 
was  responsible  for  the  little  imp.  Where  was  he? 
She  resolved  to  consult  Madame  Berger,  and 
throwing  her  skirt  over  her  head,  she  made  her 
way  down  the  deserted  street  to  the  narrow  line 
of  light  shining  between  her  neighbor's  closed 
shutters.  She'  made  no  mention  of  the  wooden 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

soldier,  and  Madame  Berger,  the  mother  of  so 
large  a  family  that  the  temporary  disappearance 
of  one  of  its  members  was  not  a  matter  for  great 
concern,  comforted  her  somewhat. 

Meanwhile  a  little  bedraggled  figure  was  stum- 
bling homeward  along  the  uneven  pavement. 
Stained  with  mud,  his  blue  blouse  discolored  by 
the  rain,  Antoine  was  scarcely  recognizable.  So 
furious  was  the  wind  that  only  by  pushing  with 
all  his  strength  could  he  close  the  door  behind 
him.  Out  of  breath,  surprised  and  pleased  at 
finding  himself  alone,  he  stood  for  a  moment  rub- 
bing away  the  drops  which  trickled  into  his  eyes 
from  the  visor  of  his  cap,  two  little  pools  of  water 
forming  on  the  floor  from  his  dripping  clothes. 
Exhausted  as  he  was,  it  was  evident  that  his  mind 
still  struggled  with  a  purpose  not  yet  accom- 
plished; for  as  soon  as  breath  was  recovered  he 
pushed  a  chair  under  the  mantel  and  climbed 
upon  the  seat.  Tired,  cold,  soaked  to  the  skin, 
triumph  shone  in  his  eyes,  for  beneath  his  blouse, 
close  to  his  heart,  was  the  wooden  soldier.  Care- 
fully uncovering  his  precious  treasure,  he  set  it 
in  its  accustomed  place,  and  then,  at  last  satisfied, 
sitting  down  before  the  shelf,  he  contemplated  his 
friend  with  a  smile  of  supreme  contentment.  It 
....  156  -. 


Aurelie 

was  in  this  attitude  Mademoiselle  Pelagic  found 
him.  To  her  inquiries  and  reproaches  he  made  no 
answer.  He  submitted  without  resistance  to  the 
removal  of  his  drenched  clothes,  to  the  hot  tisane 
prepared  for  him,  in  spite  of  which  even  in  his 
warm  bed  a  cold  chill  shook  him  at  times  from 
head  to  foot.  But  that  did  not  matter.  Monsieur 
Nicolas  was  safe. 

Poor  Antoine!  It  was  so  much  easier  to  be  a 
man  in  spirit  than  in  strength. 

Although  wanting  in  affection,  Mademoiselle 
Pelagie  was  not  without  a  conscience.  Under  its 
goadings  she  sat  far  into  the  night  by  Antoine's 
bedside,  holding  his  feverish  hand  in  hers.  From 
time  to  time  she  looked  up  at  the  wooden  soldier. 
Had  pleadings  softened  the  peddler's  heart,  or  had 
the  little  rascal  stolen  it  from  some  dark  corner 
where  it  reposed  while  its  owner  was  finishing 
a  glass  of  wine?  At  all  events,  there  on  the  shelf 
were  both  images  —  for  two  francs! 

She  had  just  fallen  into  a  doze  when  a  piercing 
cry  brought  her  to  her  feet.  Antoine,  standing 
upright  on  the  bed,  was  beating  the  wall  with  his 
clenched  fists,  crying,  "Open!  It  is  I.  It  is 
Louis!"  With  much  persuasion  she  induced  him 
to  lie  down  again,  and  now  thoroughly  frightened, 


T)iane  and  Her  Friends 

having  carefully  secured  the  covering  under  his 
chin,  she  ran  for  Madame  Berger. 

"Watch  with  him,  dear  madame,"  she  begged, 
"while  I  go  for  Dr.  Leroux.  The  child  is  gone 
clean  out  of  his  head. " 

Day  was  breaking  before  Dr.  Leroux  arrived. 
It  was  not  necessary  to  explain  to  him  that  the 
child  had  "taken  cold." 

"You  will  explain  all  this  to  me,"  he  said 
gruffly,  "after  you  have  done  what  I  tell  you." 

When  his  instructions  had  been  carried  out,  he 
turned  angrily  to  Mademoiselle  Pelagic.  "On 
what  miserable  errand  did  you  send  this  child  in 
such  a  storm?" 

"Monsieur,"  she  whimpered,  "I  did  not  send 
him.  He  went  without  my  consent.  He  has 
caused  me  great  anxiety. " 

"Well,  he  will  cause  you  no  more,"  was  the 
stern  reply. 

Mademoiselle  Pelagic  sank  trembling  into  a 
chair.  The  oppressive  silence  was  broken  only 
by  Antoine's  labored  breathing. 

"Monsieur  le  Docteur,"  began  Madame  Ber- 
ger, "when  my  Ambrose  had  pneumonia  we 
rubbed  his  chest  with  tallow  — " 

"Hush!"  Antoine  was  raising  himself  on  one 
....  158  ..- 


Aurelie 

elbow.  "What  do  you  wish,  my  little  man?" 
said  Dr.  Leroux,  forcing  him  back  gently  on  the 
pillow. 

"I  wish  —  I  wish  —  to  speak  to  Monsieur 
Nicolas." 

"  Who  is  Monsieur  Nicolas  ?  "  asked  Dr.  Leroux, 
looking  up  at  Mademoiselle  Pelagic. 

"The  soldier  of  the  Countess  Anne,"  she 
whispered. 

"Give  it  to  him." 

She  took  the  wooden  soldier  from  the  shelf 
and  gave  it  into  Antoine's  outstretched  hand. 
He  nestled  it  in  the  pillow  beside  his  cheek  with 
a  deep  sigh  of  content. 

Dr.  Leroux  was  thinking  of  the  Countess  Anne, 
of  the  day  when  she  had  lifted  her  little  protege 
in  her  arms,  lavishing  love  on  what  was  not  her 
own,  as  now  he  saw  it  lavished  on  a  wooden  toy. 
He  looked  at  Mademoiselle  Pelagic  and  frowned. 
"Love  that  might  have  been  yours,"  he  thought. 

Three  times  again,  the  next  day,  he  stood  at 
Antoine's  bedside.  It  was  the  old  story  —  a  little 
success  here  and  there,  but  in  the  end  Death  al- 
ways victorious.  The  lesson  was  as  bitter  to  him 
now  as  when  he  first  learned  it.  The  soldier  of 
the  Countess  Anne  stared  at  him  from  the  pillow. 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

For  the  sake  of  his  old  friend  he  stooped  and 
kissed  gently  the  hot  brow.  A  faint  smile  spread 
over  the  little  face  and  the  lips  parted  —  "  Au- 
relie, "  they  murmured. 

But  Dr.  Leroux  did  not  understand.  The  next 
time  he  came  the  brow  was  cold.  Beside  the 
tangled  hair  the  black  shako  of  the  wooden  soldier 
lay  quietly,  the  tightly  buttoned  coat,  under 
which  the  miniature  of  Aurelie  was  to  remain  for- 
ever concealed,  pressed  against  the  still,  white 
cheek. 


VII 
CELIMENE'S  DIAMONDS 

"I  7*OR  Inspector  Joly  a  fisherman  on  the  para- 
f^  pet  of  the  Seine  constituted  an  almost  in- 
vincible fascination.  It  was  quite  impossible  for 
him,  when  near  the  quays,  to  resist  the  impulse 
to  join  the  stragglers  watching  the  issue  of  the 
duel  going  on  beneath  the  surface  of  the  water. 
For  he,  too,  was  a  fisherman,  though  of  a  differ- 
ent kind.  To  bait  the  hook  and  wait  patiently 
was  a  part  of  his  professional  duty.  Any  one 
so  occupied  excited  his  interest  and  elicited  his 
sympathy. 

But  it  was  curious  to  observe  how  completely 
these  disappeared  when  the  bait  was  taken.  Suc- 
cess produced  a  sort  of  mental  collapse.  In  his 
own  operations,  it  is  true,  to  succeed  was  to  dis- 
charge a  duty  to  society,  to  experience  a  satisfac- 
tion of  a  moral  order.  Yet  when  he  asked  himself 
how  far  this  moral  satisfaction  accounted  for  his 
zeal,  he  was  obliged  to  admit  that  the  discharge 
of  duty  was  not  the  source  of  his  keenest  pleasure. 
Observing  one  day  the  favorite  cat  of  Madame 
....  161  .-.. 


T)iane  and  Her  Friends 

Joly  sitting  patiently  before  the  hole  in  the  wain- 
scoting of  the  pantry,  he  said:  — 

"After  all,  the  real  pleasure  is  there." 

"  What  did  you  say?  "  asked  Madame  Joly. 

"  I  said  that  if  I  were  not  an  inspector  of  police 
I  should  be  a  gambler." 

"I  think,"  she  remarked,  dryly,  "if  you  gam- 
bled you  would  be  on  the  side  of  the  bank." 

M.  Joly  always  smiled,  therefore,  when  his 
fellow  fishermen  were  credited  with  patience  — 
a  virtue  required  when  waiting  compromises  suc- 
cess, not  when  it  contributes  to  it. 

It  was  this  virtue  he  was  endeavoring  to  exer- 
cise one  November  morning  as  he  sat  in  the  salon 
of  Madame  de  Caraman  in  Bourg-la-Reine.  Of 
the  reason  for  his  excursion  to  the  country  he 
knew  nothing  beyond  the  bare  fact  that  Madame 
de  Caraman  had  lost  a  collar  of  diamonds,  which 
it  was  his  mission  to  restore.  Being  an  early 
riser,  he  had  taken  the  first  train  from  Paris  and 
had  evidently  intruded  upon  a  household  unaccus- 
tomed to  early  hours,  for  it  was  now  eleven 
o'clock,  and  the  solemnly  uttered  phrase  "Mad- 
ame la  Vicomtesse  will  receive  monsieur  pres- 
ently" had  borne  no  fruit.  It  vexed  him  to  find 
that  Madame  de  Caraman  entertained  so  poor 


Celimene's  Diamonds 

an  opinion  of  official  activity  and  appreciated  so 
little  the  value  of  time.  But  he  had  taken  matters 
into  his  own  hands  and  made  certain  preliminary 
inquiries.  From  Paul,  the  butler,  a  little  man 
prodigal  of  smiles  and  bows,  he  learned  that 
Madame  de  Caraman  and  her  cousin,  Madame 
de  Wimpffen,  having  dined  in  Paris  at  General 
Texier's,  had  returned  at  midnight;  that  on  their 
return  they  had  retired  at  once,  while  Captain  de 
Wimpffen  and  M.  de  Sade  had  passed  an  hour  at 
billiards  before  going  to  their  rooms  at  one 
o'clock;  that  he,  Paul,  had  thereupon  closed  the 
house  as  usual,  and  on  the  following  morning, 
when  making  his  customary  round,  had  found 
the  windows  and  doors  securely  fastened  as  he 
had  left  them  the  previous  evening;  that  during 
the  afternoon  the  rumor  that  Madame  de  Cara- 
man's  diamonds  had  disappeared  filtered  down 
through  her  maid,  Jacqueline,  to  the  lower  serv- 
ants; and  at  this  point  of  his  narrative  Paul 
wrung  his  hands,  his  small  round  eyes  blinking  in 
unison. 

"Alas,  Monsieur  1'Inspecteur,  what  a  misfor- 
tune," he  wailed,  "that  after  being  in  the  service 
of  Madame  la  Vicomtesse  for  twenty  years  — " 

"  We  are  not  speaking  of  the  last  century,"  said 
....  163  •••• 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

M.  Joly  curtly,  "but  of  night  before  last,  when 
Madame  de  Caraman  wore  her  diamonds  at 
General  Texier's  dinner." 

"Certainly,  certainly,  Monsieur  PInspecteur; 
I  myself  observed  them.  For  it  was  I  who  re- 
moved madame's  cloak  and  hung  it  with  my  own 
hands  in  the  cabinet  in  the  vestibule.  Monsieur," 
he  added  confidentially,  "how,  I  ask  you,  came 
this  cloak  on  the  floor  of  the  salon,  where  I  found 
it  when  opening  the  windows  in  the  morning  ? 
How  the  devil,  I  said  to  myself  — " 

"Never  mind  what  you  said  to  yourself,"  inter- 
rupted M.  Joly  impatiently.  "Bring  me  this 
cloak." 

All  his  life  he  had  been  looking  for  one  of  those 
insignificant  signs  which  escape  the  eye  of  the 
professional  detective  and  set  the  amateur  on 
the  trail  of  the  criminal.  He  had  found  them 
so  much  more  frequently  in  his  reading  than  in 
his  practice,  the  traces  left  by  the  criminal  had 
so  invariably  been  of  the  vulgar,  commonplace 
order,  that  he  had  begun  to  despair  of  ever  dis- 
playing the  finesse  of  which  he  felt  himself  cap- 
able. But  now,  at  last,  he  observed  on  the  hem  of 
Madame  de  Caraman's  cloak  two  pine-needles, 
caught  in  the  frayed  silk  of  the  lining;  and  as,, 
....  164  •••• 


Celimene's  ^Diamonds 

pine-needles  were  not  to  be  gathered  from  the 
rugs  of  General  Texier's  apartment,  he  made  a 
mental  note  of  this  fact  and  put  after  it  the  sign 
of  interrogation. 

While  examining  the  butler  in  the  salon  he 
made  also  another  discovery  —  a  bit  of  blue 
glass. 

"Monsieur  Paul,"  he  remarked,  "the  servants 
in  this  house  do  their  work  badly.  There  is  a  bit 
of  broken  glass  on  the  floor  under  the  piano." 

"It  is  true,"  admitted  Paul,  making  haste  to 
pick  up  the  indicated  fragment.  "I  thought  we 
had  found  every  piece  of  it." 

"One  should  be  more  careful.  A  sharp  edge 
like  this  might  easily  penetrate  the  thin  sole  of  a 
lady's  shoe,"  observed  M.  Joly,  taking  the  frag- 
ment from  Paul's  fat  hand.  "  It  appears  to  belong 
to  a  globe  that  has  been  broken." 

"Monsieur  is  quite  right.  Madame  has  on  her 
table  de  null  a  night-lamp  with  a  globe  of  blue 
glass.  Jacqueline  was  arranging  the  flowers 
brought  by  the  gardener  when  I  was  putting  the 
salon  in  order  yesterday  morning.  'Mademoi- 
selle,' I  said,  'some  one  has  broken  something. 
Here  is  glass  on  the  floor.'  She  came  over  to 
assist  me.  'Ah,'  she  said,  'that  accounts  for  it. 
....  165  •••• 


^Diane  and  Her  Friends 

It  is  the  shade  of  madame's  night-lamp  which  is 
missing.'" 

M.  Joly  made  a  second  note  of  interrogation 
and  added  the  bit  of  blue  glass  to  what  he  termed 
his  mental  rubbish-heap.  These  discoveries  did 
not  prevent  him,  however,  from  taking  the  ordi- 
nary routine  precautions.  The  present  possessor 
of  Madame  de  Caraman's  diamonds  either  was  or 
was  not  an  inmate  of  the  house.  He  had  therefore 
deemed  it  prudent  to  station  one  of  the  two  local 
agents  he  had  requisitioned  on  his  arrival  at  the 
main  entrance,  with  orders  to  permit  no  one  to 
leave  without  his  authorization;  the  other  he 
sent  on  a  tour  of  inspection  of  the  wall  surround- 
ing the  grounds,  and,  after  himself  examining  the 
doors  and  windows  of  the  lower  floor,  he  retired 
to  the  salon  to  await  the  appearance  of  Madame 
de  Caraman. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  in  silence,  amusing  him- 
self by  taking  an  inventory  of  his  surroundings 
by  a  process  of  mental  photography  of  his  own 
devising.  The  orchids  in  the  crystal  vases,  the 
roses  in  the  enormous  bowl  of  Chinese  porcelain, 
the  precious  trifles  behind  the  glass  doors  of  the 
gilded  cabinets,  the  damascened  clock  between 
the  amazon  in  bronze  and  the  shepherdess  in 
....  166  .».• 


Celimene's  'Diamonds 

Dresden,  the  indistinct  figures  of  the  stately 
dance  on  the  misty  background  of  tapestry,  and 
the  cherubs  playing  among  the  rose-tinted  clouds 
on  the  ceiling  having  all  been  duly  registered,  he 
folded  his  hands  over  his  waistcoat  and  closed  his 
eyes,  in  order  to  dream  of  Monrepos  —  Monrepos 
being  a  small  estate  as  yet  existing  only  in  imag- 
ination, to  which  he  fully  intended  to  retire  with 
Madame  Joly  and  his  savings  at  a  period  of  life 
as  vague  as  Monrepos  itself.  To  all  appearances 
he  was  asleep  —  the  sleep  of  the  hound  on  the 
hearthrug,  who  sees  nothing  and  hears  every- 
thing. 

As  the  clock  struck  the  half -hour  he  opened  his 
eyes.  Through  the  low,  open  windows  came  the 
rattle  of  dishes  and  the  sound  of  voices.  Break- 
fast was  being  served  on  the  terrace.  Then  some 
one  said:  — 

"What!  In  the  salon?  Show  him  out,  by  all 
means." 

The  transition  from  the  modest  garden  of 
Monrepos  to  the  terrace  overlooking  the  valley  of 
the  Bievre  might  well  have  filled  him  with  envy, 
had  not  his  entire  attention  been  given  to  the 
three  persons  at  the  breakfast  table.  Between  an 
officer  in  uniform  and  a  tall  aristocratic  person 
..-  167  •- 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends    ' 

with  a  waxed  mustache  sat  a  little  lady  in  white, 
with  so  elusive  a  charm  that  the  machinery  which 
registered  impressions  that  might  prove  useful  to 
him  failed  to  work  with  its  customary  automatic 
precision.  It  was  the  weak  side  of  his  nature  to 
love  flowers,  of  which  the  blue  eyes  of  the  lady  in 
white  reminded  him;  to  adore  children,  whose 
straightforward  honesty  he  discovered  in  the 
blue  depths  to  which  his  gaze  was  constantly 
reverting.  So  unimportant  a  detail  as  a  ravishing 
blue  bow  on  the  little  shoe  beneath  the  edge  of 
the  white  dress  assumed  in  his  register  a  place 
altogether  unwarranted.  In  the  brief  moment 
of  silence  which  followed  his  appearance  he  cata- 
logued the  blue  eyes  as  those  of  Madame  de  Car- 
aman  and  the  waxed  mustache  as  that  of  her 
husband,  while  the  uniform  of  the  big-shouldered 
officer  tilted  back  in  the  wicker  chair  certainly 
belonged  to  the  garrison  of  the  neighboring  fort  of 
Chatillon.  None  of  these  people,  he  observed, 
asked  him  to  sit  down. 

"You  are — "  began  M.  de  Caraman. 

"Inspector  Joly." 

"Good.  The  prefect  is  prompt.  It  was  only 
yesterday  at  four  o'clock  that  I  telegraphed  him." 

M.  Joly  said  to  himself  that  the  promptness  of 
....  168  •••• 


Celimene's  'Diamonds 

the  prefecture  was  not  that  of  Bourg-la-Reine, 
and  that  it  had  availed  him  nothing. 

"Pray  be  seated,"  said  Madame  de  Caraman. 

"You  have  not  yet  seen  Madame  de  Caraman, 
I  suppose,"  said  her  husband. 

Confused  by  the  remark,  M.  Joly  interrogated 
the  blue  eyes.  "  I  have  lost  half  a  day,"  he  replied 
stiffly. 

"Not  at  all;  you  are  in  error,  Monsieur  Joly. 
No  one  loses  any  time  in  Bourg-la-Reine.  Ob- 
serve Madame  de  Wimpffen,  for  example.  She 
grows  younger  every  hour." 

"Monsieur  de  Sade!" 

So  the  lady  in  white  was  not  Madame  de  Cara- 
man, and  the  waxed  mustache  did  not  belong  to 
her  husband.  M.  Joly  revised  his  catalogue. 

"Oh,  no,  Monsieur  Joly,  believe  me,  you  have 
lost  nothing.  On  the  contrary,  let  me  explain  to 
you."  M.  de  Sade  selected  carefully  a  cigarette 
from  a  silver  case  and  tapped  it  lightly  on  the 
table.  "  Every  investigation  of  this  nature  natu- 
rally proceeds  logically  from  a  basis  of  facts.  You 
expect  to  obtain  these  facts  from  Madame  de 
Caraman,  since  it  is  she  who  has  lost  this  precious 
collar  of  diamonds.  Well,  you  will  be  disap- 
pointed. Madame  de  Caraman  will  furnish 
....  169  •••• 


T)iane  and  Her  Friends 

lamentations,  an  indefinite  variety  of  psychical 
phenomena  —  but  facts  —  oh,  never!" 

"Monseieur  de  Sade!"  interrupted  the  lady  in 
white  again. 

"Come  now,  Diane,  you  know  I  speak  the 
truth.  Shall  I  prove  it  to  you?  Let  us  suppose 
Madame  de  Caraman  takes  a  walk  in  the  forest" 
—  M.  de  Sade  waved  his  hand  in  the  direction  of 
Fontenay  — "  and  encounters,  say,  a  bear. 
Would  she  be  able  to  describe  it  to  you?  Of  the 
emotions  which  the  bear  produced  in  her,  oh,  yes, 
that  I  grant  you.  They  would  be  very  entertain- 
ing to  listen  to,  and  more  numerous  than  those 
microbes  which  Monsieur  Pasteur  affirms  dance 
on  the  point  of  a  needle  without  danger  of  falling. 
But  after  all  was  said,  you  would  know  nothing 
about  the  bear  —  whether  it  was  a  grizzly  from 
North  America  or  a  polar  bear  from  the  Arctic 
Circle." 

A  little  frown  of  displeasure  struggled  loyally 
with  the  smile  of  amusement  on  the  face  of 
Madame  de  Wimpffen.  Her  companion  in  uni- 
form laughed  outright. 

"  I  assure  you,  therefore,  Monsieur  Joly,"  con- 
tinued M.  de  Sade,  lighting  the  cigarette  in  his 
long  white  fingers,  "you  have  lost  nothing.  Do 


Celimene's  'Diamonds 

not  imagine  I  am  one  of  those  creations  of  the 
novelist  who  unravels  a  mystery  from  his  inner  con- 
sciousness; still"  —  blowing  out  the  wax  taper 
with  the  smoke — "while  Madame  de  Caraman 
is  finishing  her  toilet,  it  is  possible,  if  you  are  so 
disposed,  that  I—" 

"Have  you  breakfasted,  Monsieur  Joly?" 
asked  Madame  de  Wimpffen. 

M.  Joly  looked  up  gratefully  from  the  blue 
bows  to  the  blue  eyes.  It  was  true  that  he  was 
hungry.  He  resolved  to  have  in  Monrepos  a  bed 
of  flowers  of  that  same  wonderful  blue  color. 

"Serve  Monsieur  Joly  breakfast,"  said  Ma- 
dame de  Wimpffen  to  the  valet. 

And  still  looking  into  the  blue  eyes,  M.  Joly 
said,  "I  am  at  your  service,  monsieur." 

"Let  us  begin,  then,  with  ourselves,  for  in 
these  cases  no  one  escapes  suspicion.  I  present 
you  first  to  Madame  Diane  de  Wimpffen,  who, 
with  her  husband  and  myself,  is  enjoying  Madame 
de  Caraman's  hospitality.  Madame  de  Wimpffen 
knows  very  well  that  if  there  were  any  flaw  in  her 
composition  I  should  long  ago  have  discovered  it. 
There  is  none.  Therefore  she  is  the  more  to  be 
suspected.  Nothing  is  so  abnormal  as  limpidity. 
You  have  only  to  consult  the  works  of  Monsieur 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

Becquerel,  the  physicist.  He  will  tell  you  the 
complex  can  be  studied  with  profit,  while  the 
simple  resists  all  analysis.  As  for  Captain  de 
Wimpff  en,  he  is  too  clumsy  either  to  commit  a 
theft  or  to  conceal  one"  —  The  captain  laughed 
again  good-naturedly.  "Moreover,  he  has  no 
need  of  diamonds,  since  he  has  Madame  de 
Wimpffen." 

"Monsieur  de  Sade,  you  are  making  yourself 
ridiculous." 

"We  come  now  to  myself,"  continued  M.  de 
Sade,  paying  no  attention  to  this  interruption. 
"I  confess  that  I  make  a  bad  showing,  for  I  lost 
forty  thousand  francs  last  week  at  the  club. 
Naturally,  the  debt  is  paid.  But  how?  That  is 
for  you  to  discover,  monsieur.  It  is  well  known 
that  there  exist  people  who  willingly  sacrifice  the 
diamonds  of  others  to  meet  their  own  obligations. 
I  pass  over  that  point,  which  is  a  delicate  one,  for 
another  even  more  so.  For  I  admit  that  I  know 
that  beside  Madame  de  Caraman's  bed,  —  on  the 
left  as  you  face  it,  Monsieur  Joly,  —  there  is  in 
the  wall  an  iron  safe?  How  do  I  know  that?  Be- 
cause only  day  before  yesterday  Madame  de 
Caraman  showed  me  her  treasures,  of  which  she 
is  very  proud.  There  are  some  remarkable  curios 
....  172  .... 


Celimene's  'Diamonds 

among  them  —  one  especially,  a  miniature  of 
exquisite  workmanship,  protected  by  the  thin 
slice  of  a  diamond  of  the  purest  water  and  sur- 
rounded by  gems  of  the  rarest  quality.  Person- 
ally I  much  prefer  this  heirloom  to  anything  so 
banal  as  a  collar  of  diamonds  —  a  point,  you 
observe,  in  my  favor.  But  enough  of  myself.  Let 
us  pass  to  Madame  de  Caraman.  Obviously  she 
is  above  suspicion.  For  why  should  a  woman 
steal  her  own  diamonds?  But  why  does  a  woman 
do  anything?  Who  knows,  perhaps  Madame  de 
Caraman,  like  many  worthy  persons,  has  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Shylock  on  the  Rialto  of 
Paris.  There  is  another  possibility.  The  diamonds 
are  not  stolen,  but  lost.  I  have  known  women  to 
lose  possessions  more  valuable  than  diamonds 
with  less  regret." 

"  Come,  come,  de  Sade,"  grumbled  the  captain, 
"you  go  too  far." 

"  Agreed.  I  wish  only  to  exhaust  every  hypoth- 
esis. For  myself,  I  do  not  for  a  moment  believe 
the  collar  is  lost.  For  if  it  were  only  lost,  Madame 
de  Caraman  would  say  nothing  about  it,  for  fear 
of  grieving  her  husband.  For  you  will  admit, 
Diane,"  said  M.  de  Sade,  appealing  to  Madame 
de  Wimpffen,  "that  of  all  your  cousin  Celimene's 
....  I73  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

admirable  qualities,  the  desire  to  please  is  the 
most  conspicuous  —  she  even  mistakes  it  for 
loving." 

"  You  must  not  believe  all  Monsieur  de  Sade's 
nonsense,"  said  Diane. 

"Wait!"  exclaimed  that  gentleman  suddenly. 
"  I  have  forgotten  Monsieur  de  Caraman  —  but 
that  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  since  Madame  de 
Caraman  herself  forgets  him  so  easily.  There, 
Monsieur  1'Inspecteur,  so  much  for  the  dramatis 
persona.  Now  for  the  facts." 

"They  have  their  importance,"  said  M.  Joly 
caustically,  taking  out  his  watch.  "I  have  been 
in  Bourg-la-Reine  since  eight  o'clock,  and  it  is 
now  sixteen  minutes  of  noon.  If  Madame  de 
Caraman  would  deign  to  receive  me  — " 

"Oh,"  interrupted  M.  de  Sade,  "as  to  that  you 
need  not  be  concerned.  With  Madame  de  Cara- 
man you  may  rely  absolutely  upon  the  unex- 
pected. You  expected  to  see  her  —  she  disap- 
points you.  You  abandon  hope  —  she  appears 
suddenly." 

"Monsieur  de  Sade,  be  serious,"  said  Diane. 
"  Besides,  I  have  something  to  tell  Monsieur  Joly 
which  may  be  useful  to  him." 

"You  are  right,  Diane,"  nodded  the  captain, 
....  174  .... 


Celimene's  "Diamonds 

approvingly.  "Interrogate  us,  monsieur,  since 
you  are  here  for  that  purpose." 

M.  Joly  was  not  slow  to  grasp  his  opportunity. 

"Madame  de  Caraman  missed  her  diamonds 
yesterday?"  he  began. 

"Yes,  at  three  o'clock.  She  wished  to  show  me 
a  vanity-box  which  Monsieur  de  Caraman  had 
given  her.  On  going  to  the  safe  beside  the  bed, 
she  saw  at  once  the  diamonds  were  missing." 

"And  nothing  else?" 

"Nothing.  The  case  was  open,  empty.  No- 
thing else  was  disturbed." 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  when  Madame  de 
Caraman  last  saw  these  diamonds?" 

"Perfectly — " 

"Have  a  care,  Diane,"  interrupted  M.  de  Sade. 
"A  too  willing  witness  arouses  suspicion." 

"Perfectly,  monsieur.  The  day  before  yes- 
terday we  dined  with  General  Texier  in  Paris. 
Celimene  wore  her  diamond  collar.  We  returned 
at  midnight.  My  room  adjoins  hers,  and  we  went 
up  together.  She  rang  for  her  maid,  and  while 
waiting  asked  me  to  unfasten  her  collar.  I  dis- 
tinctly remember  that  she  herself  replaced  it  in 
the  case  and  locked  the  safe." 

"Of  what  kind  is  this  safe,  madame?" 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

"That  I  cannot  tell  you.  It  has  an  iron  door, 
and  a  key  —  just  an  ordinary  key." 

"And  this  key,  do  you  know  by  any  chance 
where  madame  keeps  it?" 

"Probably  under  her  handkerchiefs  in  the 
drawer  of  her  dressing-table,"  suggested  M.  de 
Sade. 

"No,  I  do  not  know,"  replied  Diane  quietly. 

"That  is  all  you  have  to  tell  me,  madame?" 

"No." 

"The  devil!  Diane,"  exclaimed  M.  de  Sade, 
"you  have  a  secret  and  you  have  not  told  it!" 

"I  preferred  to  tell  monsieur  when  he  should 
come."  M.  de  Sade  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
M.  Joly  said  to  himself,  "You  are  an  intelligent 
woman."  "Raoul,  tell  Monsieur  Joly  what  we 
have  seen." 

The  captain  leaned  forward  on  the  table  of 
Florentine  mosaic,  interlocking  as  he  spoke  his 
stout  fingers. 

"Monsieur  ITnspecteur,"  he  said,  "I  slept 
badly  that  night.  After  a  long  dinner  I  require  to 
smoke  before  sleeping  soundly.  At  two  o'clock  I 
rose  and  opened  my  wife's  door.  'Diane,'  I  said, 
'are  you  asleep?'  There  was  no  answer.  You  see, 
from  her  room  a  window  opens  on  a  balcony. 
....  176  -. 


Celimene's  ^Diamonds 

I  wished  to  sit  in  the  fresh  air,"  said  the  captain, 
inflating  his  powerful  lungs.  "I  opened  the  win- 
dow carefully,  lit  my  cigar,  and  began  to  enjoy 
myself.  Presently  I  felt  a  hand  on  my  shoulder. 
It  was  my  wife's.  'What  are  you  doing?'  she 
said.  'You  see,' I  replied, 'I  am  smoking.  If  you 
too  wish  to  enjoy  the  night  air,  come,  I  will  get 
your  cloak.'-  I  fumbled  for  some  time  in  the  ward- 
robe. In  the  dark,  monsieur,  garments  resemble 
cats,  in  this  respect  that  they  are  all  alike.  At 
last  I  found  something.  'Raoul,'  she  said,  'you 
have  brought  me  an  underskirt.'  'Never  mind,' 
I  replied,  'the  night  is  dark  and  St.  Martin  will 
not  see  you'  —  for  you  know,  monsieur,"  ex- 
plained the  captain,  affably,  "we  are  now  in  the 
summer  of  St.  Martin.  Well,  we  sat  there  for 
some  time  in  silence.  At  last  I  said,  '  Diane,  am  I 
dreaming?'  '/  am,'  she  replied.  'But  look!'  I 
whispered,  seizing  her  arm.  'What  is  that  on  the 
terrace?'  Tell  monsieur,  Diane;  you  narrate 
better  than  I  do." 

"  What  we  saw  was  a  light  ascending  the  steps 
which  you  see  lead  down  into  the  park.  At  the 
head  of  the  steps  it  crossed  the  terrace  in  the 
direction  of  this  door  where  we  are  sitting  and 
passed  out  of  sight." 

....  I77  .... 


T)iane  and  Her  Friends 

"An  hallucination,"  said  M.  de  Sade. 

The  captain  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  head 
of  one  of  the  centaurs  in  the  frieze  of  the  table. 
"Thunder  of  God!"  he  exclaimed,  "I  was  wide 
awake." 

Madame  de  Wimpffen  laid  her  hand  caressingly 
over  the  bronzed  fist  of  her  husband. 

"Well,  then,  a  miracle,  if  you  prefer," laughed 
M.  de  Sade. 

"De  Sade,"  said  the  captain,  tapping  the  table 
with  one  of  his  stout  fingers,  "  you  know  very  well 
I  am  not  easily  deceived.  When  a  light  travels 
through  the  air  at  a  metre's  height  it  is  because 
some  one  carries  it,  and  if  I  do  not  perceive  this 
person  it  is  because  the  night  is  dark.  Proceed, 
Diane." 

"We  went  in  at  once.  My  husband  lighted  a 
candle  with  the  intention  of  going  down.  While 
he  was  dressing  I  heard  sounds  in  my  cousin's 
room.  'Raoul,'  I  said,  'some  one  is  moving  in 
Celimene's  room.  I  will  go  in  and  see  what  is 
happening.'  I  opened  the  door.  She  was  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  '  Celimene,  dear,'  I  asked, 
'  what  is  the  matter? '  '  I  am  frightened,'  she  said. 
'I  have  had  a  nightmare  —  but  it  is  over  — 
forgive  me  for  disturbing  you,  and  go  to  bed.' 
....  178  -. 


Celimene's  'Diamonds 

I  embraced  her.  She  was  trembling.  'It  was  very 
foolish  in  me,  but  it  is  nothing  —  go  to  bed,'  she 
said  again.  I  embraced  her  again,  returned  to  my 
room,  and  told  my  husband." 

"You  also  made  an  observation  which  you 
have  omitted  to  repeat,  Diane,"  said  the  captain. 

Madame  de  Wimpffen  hesitated. 

"You  said  to  me,  'Raoul,  Celimene  had  on  her 
face  that  foolish  look  of  a  child  caught  in  a  fault.' " 

M.  de  Sade,  humming  to  himself,  walked  to 
the  terrace  steps. 

"Monsieur  Joly,"  said  Madame  de  Wimpffen, 
"the  thoughts  that  one  blurts  out  to  one's  hus- 
band are  not  to  be  taken  into  account." 

Silence. 

"We  decided  not  to  speak  of  what  we  had 
seen,"  resumed  Diane.  "Monsieur  de  Caraman 
is  absent,  and  my  cousin  is  easily  disturbed.  In 
the  morning  she  made  light  of  her  adventure. 
She  said  she  had  had  a  bad  dream.  If  the  dia- 
monds were  not  missing  I  should  not  speak  of  this 
now." 

"There  was  a  light  in  Madame  de  Caraman's 
room  when  you  entered  ?"  asked  M.  Joly. 

"Certainly,  else — " 

"One  moment,  if  you  please.  The  night-lamp 
....  179  .... 


T)iane  and  Her  Friends 

on  Madame  de  Caraman's  table  de  null  has  a  blue 
shade,  has  it  not?  Did  you  observe  this  shade 
when  you  entered?" 

A  look  of  surprise  swept  over  Madame  de 
Wimpffen's  face. 

"No,  Monsieur,  I  did  not  observe  that.  But 
now  that  you  ask  me  —  it  seems  to  me  —  I  think 
there  was  no  shade.  It  is  not  a  lamp;  it  is  one  of 
those  candles  with  a  globe  which  protects  the 
flame  from  the  wind." 

"  One  question  more,  madame.  This  light  which 
you  saw  on  the  terrace,  was  it  white?  or  did  it 
perchance  have  a  blue  color?" 

Madame  de  Wimpffen  exchanged  a  quick 
glance  with  her  husband. 

"Monsieur  Joly,  what  you  are  thinking  of  is 
impossible,"  she  said,  with  dignity. 

"Madame,"  said  M.  Joly,  smiling,  "what  I  am 
thinking  of  you  do  not  know,  since  I  do  not  know 
myself.  Monsieur  de  Sade  has  put  so  many  ideas 
into  my  head  that  I  cannot  find  my  own." 

The  valet,  appearing  with  the  breakfast-tray, 
began  to  lay  the  table. 

"If  you  do  not  wish  to  question  us  further, 
monsieur,"  said  Diane,  rising,  "we  will  leave  you 
to  enjoy  your  breakfast.  I  see  Madame  de 
....  180  •••• 


Celimene's  ^Diamonds 

Caraman's  shutters  are  open.  I  am  sure  she  will 
receive  you  presently." 

No,  M.  Joly  would  ask  no  questions.  He 
watched  the  two  as  they  crossed  the  gray  stone 
flagging  of  the  terrace  and  disappeared  with 
M.  de  Sade  down  the  broad  steps  between  the 
huge  urns  with  their  dark-green  pyramids  of 
cypress,  then  turned  to  his  breakfast. 

He  was  entirely  satisfied  with  his  wife's  cuisine, 
yet  he  enjoyed  immensely  that  of  Madame  de 
Caraman.  The  November  air  had  the  crisp  soft- 
ness of  two  seasons,  and  the  Sauterne  a  flavor 
which  reminded  him  that  the  i5th  of  the  month 
was  approaching  —  an  anniversary  day  on  which 
he  always  dined  with  Madame  Joly  at  a  certain 
cafe  whose  cellar  was  excellent. 

The  valet  placed  the  box  of  regalias  on  the 
table. 

He  selected  one  carefully,  made  four  small 
incisions  with  the  point  of  his  penknife  —  then 
reflected.  He  never  smoked  when  on  duty.  He 
closed  his  knife,  put  the  cigar  in  his  pocket,  and 
sighed. 

The  rustle  of  a  dress  on  the  marquetry  floor  of 
the  salon  came  faintly  through  the  open  door. 
He  looked  up  and  saw  a  maid  in  black,  with  a 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

white  collar  and  apron.  It  is  Jacqueline,  he 
thought. 

"If  monsieur  will  have  the  goodness  to  fol- 
low me  —  Madame  la  Vicomtesse  will  receive 
him." 

At  the  door  of  a  small  boudoir  hung  with  rose 
brocade  M.  Joly  perceived  one  of  the  Bath  chairs 
to  be  seen  at  the  seaside,  against  whose  back- 
ground of  rose-colored  silk  Madame  de  Caraman's 
morning-gown  of  lace  made  an  effective  contrast. 
A  white  hand  marked  with  blue  veins  answered 
his  bow  by  a  gesture  which  said,  be  seated. 

"You  are  the  officer  sent  by  Monsieur  Le- 
vigne?  " 

M.  Joly  bowed  again. 

"Monsieur  de  Sade  was  good  enough  to  tele- 
graph for  me.  The  prefect  is  very  kind.  I  little 
thought  when  I  last  saw  him  —  I  am  greatly 
disturbed  by  this  loss,  Monsieur  — " 

"Joly,  madame." 

"Monsieur  Joly.  It  was  a  gift  from  my  hus- 
band on  my  name-day.  Such  remembrances 
possess  a  value  which  cannot  be  estimated. 
Monsieur  de  Caraman  will  feel  its  loss  as  deeply 
as  I  do."  In  the  wistful  brown  eyes  resided  an 
appealing  expression. '  The  same  pathetic  demand 


Celimene's  'Diamonds 

for  sympathy  lingered  in  the  delicate  lines  of  the 
mouth,  as  if  reluctant  to  abandon  them.  M.  Joly 
said  to  himself:  "Here  is  a  well  woman  who  is  an 
invalid."  "  There  is  also  the  knowledge  that  some 
one  has  penetrated  into  my  house,  or,  what  is 
still  more  painful  to  believe,  that  I  cherish 'a  thief 
in  my  household.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  this 
thought  oppresses  me."  The  pale,  oval  face,  ani- 
mated by  a  sort  of  vivacious  sadness,  awakened 
in  M.  Joly's  breast  a  sentiment  of  pity.  "In  the 
absence  of  my  husband"  —  the  white  hands  were 
smoothing  out  the  troubled  folds  of  lace — "I 
must  rely  wholly  upon  you,  monsieur." 

Again  M.  Joly  bowed,  depositing  his  hat  on  the 
floor  beside  his  chair  and  folding  his  hands  over 
his  waistcoat. 

"You  will,  then,  permit  me  to  ask  certain 
questions." 

"Assuredly,  Monsieur  Joly.  I  am  waiting." 

"I  do  not  need  to  tell  you,"  he  began,  "that  a 
thief  who  breaks  into  a  house  leaves  some  sign  of 
infraction.  There  is  none."  Madame  de  Caraman 
became  attentive.  "There  is  the  hypothesis  of 
an  accomplice  who  admits  him.  But  for  a  thief 
who  steals  a  collar  of  diamonds,  to  leave  behind 
him  still  greater  booty,  is  unusual,  whether  this 
....  183  - 


<Diane  and  Her  Friends 

thief  enters  by  force  or  is  admitted  by  an  accom- 
plice." 

"But,  Monsieur  Joly,"  interrupted  Madame  de 
Caraman,  "  you  forget  —  for  certainly  I  have 
read  of  such  cases  —  that  while  engaged  in  a  rob- 
bery one  may  be  disturbed  —  some  noise  alarms 
the  intruder  — " 

"Madame,"  said  M.  Joly,  "the  cure  of  Saint- 
Medard  calls  me  a  skeptic,  because  in  seeking  to 
account  for  what  I  do  not  understand  I  adopt 
always  the  most  natural  explanation.  He,  on  the 
contrary,  always  adopts  the  most  unnatural  one. 
It  astonishes  me  that  of  two  explanations  he 
should  invariably  choose  the  least  probable.  For 
that  reason  I  conclude  that  what  he  really  prefers 
is  the  mystery  itself  and  not  its  explanation,  since 
his  explanation  always  involves  another  mystery 
still  more  mysterious.  Let  us  recapitulate.  After 
locking  the  safe  in  which  you  deposited  the  dia- 
monds on  the  night  of  your  return  from  Paris  —  " 
"You  know  all  this!"  exclaimed  Madame  de 
Caraman,  leaning  forward. 

"From  Madame  de  Wimpffen." 
"Ah!  you  have  talked  with  Diane." 
"In   order  not  to  lose  time,"  said  M.  Joly 
politely. 

.-  184  - 


Celimene's  ^Diamonds 

"Proceed,  monsieur." 

'"After  locking  the  safe,  you  secreted  the  key  — 
for  I  suppose  you  secreted  it  — " 

"Yes,  under  my  pillow,  where  I  always  place  it 
on  retiring." 

"And  in  the  morning?" 

"  In  my  corsage,  where  it  is  now.  You  see,"  she 
said,  holding  it  out  to  him.  "Monsieur  de 
Caraman  also  has  a  key,  which  he  carries  on  his 
person.  But  he  is  absent." 

"Well,  then,  how  does  it  happen,  madame,  if, 
between  midnight  of  Sunday  when  you  locked  the 
safe  and  three  o'clock  of  Monday  when  you 
opened  it,  this  key  which  you  hold  in  your  hand 
remained  in  your  possession — " 

"  But  might  not  some  one  have  possessed  him- 
self of  a  third  key?"  interposed  Madame  de 
Caraman. 

"I  am  coming  to  that,"  assented  M.  Joly. 
"There  is,  then,  a  third  key,  and  a  thief  who  is 
alarmed  in  the  act  of  using  it.  At  what  hour  is  he 
thus  alarmed?  Was  it  by  any  chance  at  two 
o'clock,  after  midnight,  when  madame  is  awak- 
ened by  a  bad  dream?" 

The  slight  figure  stiffened  like  a  snake  about 
to  strike,  and  anger  flamed  in  the  pale  cheeks. 
....  185  •- 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

"Madame  de  Wimpffen  has  told  yoifthis?" 

"  Why  not?  "  pursued  M.  Joly  quietly.  "  There 
are  bad  dreams  and  bad  dreams.  In  one  of  those 
dreams  a  woman  takes  the  night-lamp  from  her 
table,  descends  the  stairs  to  the  closet  hi  the  vesti- 
bule, wraps  about  her  shoulders  the  cloak  which 
she  finds  there,  and  enters  the  salon.  She  even 
opens  the  window  and  passes  out  into  the  park. 
For  Monsieur  de  Wimpffen  from  his  balcony  sees 
the  light  of  her  lamp  crossing  the  terrace,  and  on 
the  hem  of  her  cloak,  which  on  her  return  she 
drops  on  the  floor  of  the  salon,  are  found  some  of 
those  pine-needles  with  which  the  pines  I  see 
below  the  terrace  strew  the  ground  — " 

"Monsieur!"  gasped  Madame  de  Caraman. 

"Madame,"  said  M.  Joly  gently,  "if  you  have 
anything  to  fear,  if  it  is  your  desire,!  will  take 
the  next  train  to  Paris,  and  I  will  say  to  Monsieur 
Levigne:  'Monsieur  le  Prefet,  there  was  an  error. 
The  diamonds  have  been  found.'" 

Indignation  struggled  with  fear.  "I  have 
nothing  to  fear,  nothing,"  she  cried,  "but  you 
terrify  me." 

"I  am  convinced  of  it.  Believe  me,  madame, 
I  am  not  so  naive  as  to  suppose  that  a  woman 
goes  to  an  assignation  in  her  own  park,  every  foot 
....  186  — 


Celimene's  ^Diamonds 

of  which  she  knows  by  heart,  with  a  lighted 
candle  in  her  hand,  and  if  I  had  conceived  so 
absurd  an  idea  I  should  not  have  been  so  indeli- 
cate as  to  confide  it  to  her." 

Madame  de  Caraman  began  to  laugh  hysteric- 
ally. 

"But  it  is  true.  I  found  myself  in  the  salon 
with  my  cloak  over  my  nightdress  —  my  candle 
in  one  hand.  I  was  so  terrified,  I  trembled  so,  the 
shade  fell.  At  the  noise  I  fled  to  my  room  —  but 
the  park,  never,  monsieur,  never." 

"It  is  absolutely  necessary  that  you  should 
have  gone  to  the  park,  madame.  That  is  indis- 
pensable." 

"  I  must  have  been  mad,"  she  murmured,  press- 
ing her  hands  to  her  forehead,  "mad." 

"Fortunately  the  madness  which  one  commits 
in  one's  sleep  is  not  provided  for  in  the  Penal 
Code,"  said  M.  Joly.  "What  interests  me  most 
is  something  which  you  have  forgotten  —  the 
diamond  collar.  If  madame  would  do  me  the 
honor  to  take  a  short  promenade  in  that  bosquet 
of  pines,  who  knows  — " 

"It  would  be  incredible." 

"Ah,  madame,"  smiled  M.  Joly,  picking  up 
his  hat  and  bowing  in  his  most  gallant  manner, 
....  187  •- 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

"  let  us  leave  the  incredible  to  the  cure  of  Saint- 
Medard  and  follow  the  scent  of  those  pine-needles 
in  the  hem  of  your  cloak." 

In  the  letter  that  Madame  de  Wimpffen  wrote 
that  evening  to  the  Countess  Anne  occurred 
this  sentence:  — 

"We  were  feeding,  Raoul  and  I,  the  carp  in  the 
pond,  when  we  saw  Celimene  and  the  inspector 
—  that  same  Monsieur  Joly  who  came  to  Freyr 
to  arrest  your  gardener  —  descending  the  steps 
of  the  terrace.  They  traversed  the  pines  to  that 
inclosure  which  Celimene  calls  the  sub  rosa,  a 
spot  carpeted  with  myrtles  and  hedged  with  box 
and  ilexes.  In  its  green  niches  are  statues,  at  one 
extremity  marble  seats,  and  at  the  other  a  foun- 
tain from  which  water  is  constantly  falling  into  a 
shell  of  marble. 

"A  few  days  ago  we  were  all  sitting  in  this 
retreat,  when  Monsieur  de  Sade  began  descanting 
in  the  manner  which  you  know.  'It  is  a  violation 
of  every  principle  of  good  taste,'  he  said,  'to 
people  our  gardens  with  these  naked  statues. 
The  man  who  originated  this  barbarous  custom 
should  be  stripped  and  subjected  to  the  same 
punishment.  By  what  canon  of  art  do  we  expose 


EXPOSED   TO   THE   INCLEMENCY   OF   THE   WEATHER 


Celimene' s  diamonds 

these  charming  creatures  to  the  inclemency  of 
the  weather!  I  warrant  you  that  if  ever  the  dry- 
ads and  fauns  of  Greece  existed  they  clothed 
themselves  like  our  ancestors,  in  the  skins  of  wild 
animals.  Observe  that  poor  nymph  whose  fair 
skin  is  discolored  with  mould.  See  how  the  dung 
of  the  birds  and  the  refuse  of  the  forest  have  fallen 
on  her  hair,  and  what  foul  stains  mar  the  virginity 
of  her  bosom!  Can  any  one  imagine  anything 
more  cruel?' 

"'But,  Monsieur  de  Sade,'  said  Celimene, 
'  these  are  creatures  of  the  imagination.'  'A  fine 
reason  for  exposing  them  to  dirt  and  influenza! 
If  I  had  created  a  being  so  lovely  as  that 
nymph,  I  would  place  her  beside  my  fire  in  my 
boudoir,  and  not  leave  her  to  shiver  in  this 
solitude.  If  you  should  throw  your  mantle  about 
those  graceful  shoulders  she  would  look  up  into 
your  face  with  a  smile  of  gratitude.  And  not  a 
single  jewel !  If  you  give  a  flute  to  Pan  and  a  club 
to  Hercules,  why  not  a  jewel  to  Venus?'  'But 
these  beautiful  forms  have  no  need  of  jewels, 
Monsieur  de  Sade,'  said  Celimene.  'For  whom 
are  you  speaking?'  he  replied;  'for  yourself  or  for 
Madame  Venus  yonder?  Fasten  your  collar  of 
diamonds  about  her  neck  and  I  will  wager  you  a 
....  189  ..- 


^Diane  and  Her  Friends 

thousand  napoleons  she  will  descend  from  her 
pedestal  like  Galatea  and  go  to  admire  herself  in 
the  fountain.'  'I  will  try  it,'  said  Celimene. 
"And  to  think  that  she  should  do  sol" 


VIII 
THE  REAL  BIRTHDAY  OF  DORANTE 

IT  was  the  i5th  of  November.  A  fine  rain  had 
been  falling  all  day,  filling  the  hollows  of  the 
asphalt  with  shining  pools  and  covering  the  side- 
walks with  a  glistening  surface  of  reflected  lights. 
On  account  of  this  rain  Inspector  Joly  had  ordered 
a  cab,  for  Madame  Joly  was  wearing  her  best 
dress,  it  being  the  anniversary  of  their  marriage, 
which  they  always  observed  by  dining  at  the 
Fountain  of  Health.  Twenty  years  before,  on 
the  1 5th  of  November,  the  rain  fell  as  it  was  fall- 
ing to-night.  It  had  not  mattered  then  and  it  did 
not  matter  now,  the  i5th  of  November  being  still 
a  door  through  which  Madame  Joly  passed  in  a 
kind  of  trance,  indifferent  to  the  weather. 

As  it  was  always  possible  that  some  profes- 
sional duty  should  interfere  with  this  annual 
pilgrimage  to  the  Fountain  of  Health,  Madame 
Joly  heard  with  relief  her  husband's  key  turning 
in  the  lock,  as  usual,  at  six  o'clock.  But  at  seven, 
as  she  was  drawing  on  her  gloves  and  M.  Joly 
was  about  to  put  out  the  lights,  the  tinkle  of  the 
....  191  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

doorbell  and  a  note  left  by  a  messenger  filled  her 
with  alarm. 

For  three  months  M.  Joly  had  been  engaged  in 
a  relentless  search  for  a  band  of  counterfeiters 
who  had  given  the  Bank  of  France  no  small  con- 
cern. Only  the  week  before  had  he  succeeded  in 
locating  their  workshop  in  the  cellar  of  the 
Restaurant  des  Tournelles,  Place  des  Vosges;  but 
as  the  chief  of  this  band  was  absent  from  Paris, 
the  execution  of  the  plan  formed  for  their  capture 
was  awaiting  the  information  of  his  return.  As 
luck  would  have  it,  this  information  arrived  on 
the  evening  of  the  i5th  of  November,  precisely 
as  M.  Joly  was  extinguishing  the  gas. 

The  note  read  as  follows:  — 

He  has  returned,  and  can  be  taken  to-night  at  a 
rendezvous  in  the  Restaurant  des  Tournelles  — 
which  is  being  watched. 

PlCHON. 

They  were  standing  in  the  vestibule.  The  cab 
was  at  the  door.  It  had  been  impossible  for 
Madame  Joly  not  to  see  the  word  "Urgent" 
written  on  the  corner  of  the  envelope,  as  it  was 
impossible  for  M.  Joly  not  to  see  that  the  uncon- 


The  Real  Birthday  of  ^Dorante 

cern  with  which  she  waited  while  he  was  breaking 
the  seal  was  really  the  heroic  determination  to 
endure  disappointment  without  complaint.  She 
was  looking  exceedingly  pretty  in  her  new  furs; 
a  little  less  slender,  but  otherwise  exactly  like 
the  woman  of  twenty  years  ago.  One  would  as 
soon  strike  an  angel  from  God  as  disappoint  a 
woman  waiting  to  be  loved.  One  of  the  reasons 
for  adoring  this  woman  was  her  forbearance  under 
circumstances  which  would  have  justified  one  of 
less  patience  and  confidence  in  asking  questions. 

M.  Joly  folded  the  note,  tucked  it  carefully  in 
the  pocket  of  his  white  waistcoat,  and  said:  — 

"Come,  let  us  be  going." 

At  the  foot  of  the  three  long  nights  of  winding 
stairs,  as  he  was  holding  the  umbrella  over 
Madame  Joly  while  she  was  crossing  the  sidewalk 
to  the  cab,  a  passing  policeman,  his  short  cape 
dripping  in  the  rain,  recognized  him  and  touched 
his  hat.  This  simple  gesture  was  like  a  hand 
placed  upon  his  shoulder.  Instantly  awoke  in 
him  the  instinct  of  the  inspector,  and  under  the 
uncontrollable  impulse  born  of  this  sudden  appa- 
rition of  the  symbol  of  authority  and  duty,  he 
said  to  the  driver:  — 

"  Restaurant  des  Tournelles,  Place  des  Vosges." 
....  I93  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

Even  before  he  had  taken  his  seat  this  impulse, 
as  short-lived  as  it  had  been  strong,  vanished, 
and  he  realized  that  he,  Inspector  Joly,  the  man 
of  method  and  resource,  had  lost  his  head.  In  the 
vestibule  he  had  put  inclination  before  duty,  for 
the  sake  of  a  woman.  On  the  sidewalk  he  had  put 
duty  before  inclination,  at  the  expense  of  one. 
These  two  irreconcilable  acts  plunged  him  in  the 
depths  of  contradiction  and  indecision.  If  the 
first  was  a  crime,  the  second  was  a  folly.  He  was 
too  gallant  to  lay  upon  the  woman  beside  him  the 
blame  for  yielding  to  inclination.  He  was  too  just 
to  hold  his  innocent  subordinate  responsible  for 
entangling  her  in  the  meshes  of  duty. 

"The  devil!"  he  said  to  himself,  "I  have  made 
a  mess  of  it." 

Before  turning  into  Rue  Saint- Jacques  it  be- 
came evident  to  Madame  Joly  that  he  was 
thinking  profoundly  of  something  —  and  again 
she  refrained.  She  also  was  thinking  of  some- 
thing, and  it  was  pleasant  to  believe  that  that 
something  which  absorbed  him  was  that  same 
memory  which  quickened  the  beating  of  her  own 
heart.  But  when,  after  crossing  the  Pont  d'Arcole, 
the  cab  turned  along  the  quays  to  the  right,  she 
murmured:  — 

....  194  .... 


The  Real  Birthday  of  T)orante 

"He  is  taking  the  wrong  direction." 

M.  Joly  was  at  that  instant  on  the  verge  of 
confession.  He  was  saying  to  himself:  "After  all, 
a  date  has  no  real  importance.  Why  be  a  slave 
to  a  calendar?  The  year  has  three  hundred  and 
sixty-five  days,  but  the  three-hundred-and-sixty- 
fifth  has  no  value  not  possessed  by  the  others. 
Besides,  there  is  leap-year,  which  disarranges 
everything.  We  might  have  been  married  on  the 
2gth  of  February!  Decidedly,  anniversaries 
should  be  regulated  by  sentiment,  not  by  Pope 
Gregory  XIII."  He  remembered  also  that 
Madame  Joly  was  as  reasonable  as  she  was  pretty. 

If  she  had  remained  silent  a  second  longer, 
purpose  would  have  been  converted  into  action, 
and  he  would  have  confided  to  her  these  reflec- 
tions. Unfortunately  her  interruption,  hi  itself  so 
natural  and  so  innocent,  like  an  unexpected  jolt 
deranged  so  completely  his  mental  process  that 
he  followed  mechanically  the  direction  of  the 
cab  instead  of  his  thought,  and  said:  — 

"We  are  going  to  another  place." 

Much  to  the  dismay  of  the  cure  of  Saint- 
Medard,  M.  Joly  had  always  contended  that  in 
order  thoroughly  to  realize  the  meaning  of  any 
commandment  of  the  Decalogue  one  must  first 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

break  it.  He  now  perceived  that  this  reasoning 
applied  also  to  proverbs.  He  saw  clearly  why  the 
first  step  is  so  costly;  "and  the  second,"  he 
thought,  "is  still  more  so  — to  a  certain  extent  it 
is  also  imperative.  In  the  automatism  of  the 
brain  there  is  a  kind  of  blundering  logic  — " 

The  cab  had  stopped. 

"  It  is  here,"  he  said. 

As  Madame  Joly  stepped  out  under  the  arcade 
of  the  Place  des  Vosges,  above  the  three  lighted 
windows  she  read  the  words  Bibeault  —  Restau- 
rant des  Tournelles.  There  was  no  doorway  on  the 
street,  the  entrance  being  through  a  side  corridor, 
where  she  waited  for  her  husband,  who  was  pay- 
ing for  the  cab. 

"Ah,"  said  M.  Joly,  to  a  man  who  stepped  out 
from  the  shadow  of  a  pillar,  "it  is  you,  Pichon." 

"He  is  inside,"  whispered  the  agent.  "We 
have  four  of  ours  within  call." 

"  Four!  It  is  a  small  army  you  have."  M.  Joly 
counted  out  the  exact  fare,  added  fifty  centimes, 
and  dismissed  the  driver.  "Pichon,  if  I  tap  once 
on  the  window  you  will  know  he  is  coming  out. 
But  do  your  work  quietly.  I  am  dining  with 
my  wife.  Afterward,  when  I  tap  twice,  you  will 
come  in." , 

....  196  -. 


The  Real  Birthday  of  ^orante 

"The  old  fox!"  muttered  the  agent,  "to  bring 
his  wife  with  him!" 

When  Madame  Joly,  on  opening  the  door  of 
her  apartment,  saw  the  messenger,  she  said  to 
herself,  "  Something  has  occurred  —  our  evening 
is  ruined."  But  the  words,  "Come,  let  us  be 
going,"  reassured  her,  and  her  fears  vanished. 
At  the  Pont  d'Arcole,  however,  her  first  convic- 
tion returned.  The  cab  was  taking  the  wrong 
direction.  "I  was  right,"  she  thought.  "Some- 
thing has  occurred."  Standing  in  the  corridor 
waiting  for  her  husband,  she  was  now  asking 
herself,  "Why,  since  for  some  reason  he  is  not 
dining  with  me  at  the  Fountain  of  Health,  am  I 
dining  with  him  at  the  Restaurant  des  Tour- 
nelles?"  Yet  once  more  she  refrained.  Nothing 
in  all  the  twenty  years  justified  the  supposition 
that  the  reason  was  a  bad  one. 

"It  is  disgraceful,"  said  M.  Joly,  rejoining  her. 
"The  moment  one  puts  one's  hand  in  one's 
pocket  a  beggar  appears." 

"He  seemed  to  me  a  very  well-dressed  one," 
she  replied.  "You  did  well  to  give  him  noth- 
ing." 

In  the  Fountain  of  Health  there  was  a  little 
cabinet,  always  reserved  for  them  on  the  i$th  of 
....  I97  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

November.  On  entering  it  Madame  Joly  invari- 
ably experienced  that  same  delicious  sensation 
she  had  known  when  in  this  very  room  she  found 
herself  for  the  first  time  alone  with  her  husband. 
Behind  the  door  was  a  hook,  on  which  M.  Joly 
had  hung,  first,  her  cloak,  and  then  his  coat; 
and  this  coat,  thus  deposited  over  her  own  gar- 
ment, had  been  a  symbol  of  possession,  of  some- 
thing strange  but  infinitely  dear,  of  something 
immediately  realized  in  a  more  definite  form 
when,  between  the  closing  of  the  door  and  the 
appearance  of  the  waiter  with  the  menu,  she  had 
abandoned  herself  to  two  protecting  arms  in  a 
manner  she  had  never  dreamed  possible. 

There  was  no  cabinet  in  the  Restaurant  des 
Tournelles.  The  iron  stand  on  which  the  waiter 
hung  the  new  furs  was  a  poor  substitute  for  the 
hook  in  the  Fountain  of  Health.  Nevertheless, 
the  room  was  a  pleasant  one,  resembling  more  an 
inn  in  the  country  than  a  restaurant  of  the  capital. 
A  fire  was  burning  on  the  hearth,  before  which  a 
little  girl,  with  brown  hair  drawn  smooth  above 
her  temples,  was  turning  a  spit.  More  critical 
than  on  that  night  when  she  first  dined  tete-a-tete 
with  her  husband,  Madame  Joly  noted  with  sat- 
isfaction that  the  linen  was  spotless  and  the 
....  198  •••• 


The  Real  Birthday  of  <Dorante 

glasses  bright.    She  noted  also  with  relief  the 
presence  of  several  of  her  own  sex. 

M.  Joly  chose  a  table  near  the  window  and 
began  to  study  the  menu.  Always  at  the  Foun- 
tain of  Health  he  ordered  the  dinner  which  inaug- 
urated their  married  life  —  a  pate  d'ltalie,  sole  au 
vin  blanc,  capon  with  water-cress,  an  omelette  au 
confiture,  and  a  bottle  of  Burgundy,  followed  by 
biscuit,  cream-cheese,  and  green  chartreuse,  which 
latter  Madame  Joly  had  learned  to  sip  with  more 
confidence  than  she  had  exhibited  on  that  evening 
when  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  discovered 
the  immense  difference  between  vin  ordinaire  and 
Romance.  It  was  not  because  there  was  no  pate 
d'ltalie  on  the  menu  that  M.  Joly  ordered  a 
potage  Julienne.  Madame  Joly  accepted  this 
substitution  without  surprise.  It  would  have 
been  a  sacrilege  to  eat  the  dinner  of  the  Fountain 
of  Health  in  the  Restaurant  des  Tournelles.  At 
the  same  time  her  curiosity  redoubled.  But  pride 
had  now  come  to  the  assistance  of  confidence,  and 
again  she  refrained.  M.  Joly  saw  this  acquies- 
cence, but  not  the  curiosity.  While  completing 
his  order  he  observed  her  attentively.  To  all 
appearances  she  was  quite  at  ease.  This  tran- 
quillity increased  his  admiration  of  her  and  also 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends. 

his  irritation  at  himself.  It  would  require  all  his 
skill  to  extricate  himself  from  his  dilemma  with- 
out losing  her  confidence  or  his  own  self-respect. 
For  confession  of  some  sort,  though  postponed, 
was  inevitable.  He  had  already  admitted  that  in 
ordering  the  potage  Julienne.  He  decided,  how- 
ever, contrary  to  the  practice  of  the  cure  of 
Saint-Medard,  to  eat  his  dinner  first  and  make 
his  confession  afterward.  It  would  certainly  be 
easier  after  the  Burgundy  than  before  the  soup. 
Moreover,  between  the  soup  and  the  Burgundy 
something  might  happen. 

"My  dear,"  he  began,  protecting  the  wide 
expanse  of  his  shirt  from  mishap  with  his  napkin, 
"we  dine  to-night  on  the  spot  where  Henri  II 
lost  his  life  in  a  tournament,  and  the  three  favor- 
ites of  Guise  had  an  argument  of  swords  with  the 
minions  of  his  brother,  Henri  III.  In  that  house 
over  there  died  Rachel,  and  in  this  square  lived 
Victor  Hugo." 

M.  Joly  had  two  manners  of  speaking,  which 
his  wife  had  long  since  learned  to  distinguish. 
One  was  his  professional  manner,  in  which  he 
now  addressed  her,  and  which  she  loved  because 
it  differentiated  so  completely  the  outside  world 
from  their  own;  the  other  recalled  the  Fountain  of 
•  •-.  200  •••• 


The  Real  Birthday  of  ^Dorante 

Health,  and  had  not  changed  in  tenderness  or 
deference  since  his  coat  embraced  her  cloak  on 
the  hook  behind  the  door  of  the  cabinet  particu- 
lier. 

"  What  you  say  is  most  interesting,"  she  replied, 
looking  out  into  the  square  through  the  muslin 
curtain. 

"Few  people  think  of  the  past  amid  whose 
memorials  they  live,"  pursued  M.  Joly.  "Like 
Montaigne,  I  love  this  city  of  Paris  —  even  to 
the  spots  and  blemishes  on  her  fan"  body." 

His  voice  had  fallen  into  its  second  manner, 
and  Madame  Joly  suddenly  afflicted  with  a  fit  of 
shyness,  kept  her  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  the  house 
of  Rachel. 

"One  would  not  suppose  this  melancholy 
square,  with  its  low  arcade  and  red-brick  houses, 
was  once  the  court  end  of  town.  It  is  true,  at 
that  time  it  did  not  exist.  Formerly  there  stood 
here  that  famous  Palais  des  Tournelles,  so  called 
because  of  its  vast  assemblage  of  turrets,  con- 
structed under  Charles  V.  But  that  palace  was 
destroyed  by  Catharine  de  Medicis  in  1565.  Not 
till  1604  was  the  present  square  begun  by  Henri 
IV." 

Madame  Joly  was  well  aware  of  her  husband's 
....  201  •••• 


THane  and  Her  Friends 

passion  for  history,  but  never  before  on  the  i5th 
of  November  had  he  conversed  upon  so  remote  a 
past.  The  description  of  the  masquerade  which 
nearly  proved  fatal  to  Charles  VI  interested  her 
but  moderately.  To  the  account  of  the  tourna- 
ment held  in  honor  of  the  marriage  of  Elizabeth 
with  Philip  II  of  Spain  she  listened  more  atten- 
tively, for  a  marriage  always  excited  her  sympa- 
thies. The  glimpse  of  a  white  dress  in  a  carriage 
on  its  way  to  the  Mairie  always  caused  her  to 
stop,  and  she  followed  its  occupant  in  thought  far 
beyond  the  point  where  the  carriage  passed  from 
sight.  But  the  little  girl  with  the  brown  hair, 
who,  released  from  her  duties  at  the  spit,  was 
gazing  wistfully  at  the  basket  of  fruit  on  the  table, 
interested  her  still  more.  Having  no  children,  she 
had  accumulated  a  store  of  affection  which  over- 
flowed at  the  slightest  provocation.  She  had  even 
suggested  to  M.  Joly  the  project  of  adopting  what 
nature  had  not  supplied.  He  also  adored  chil- 
dren, but  the  question  which  nature  decides  so 
arbitrarily  had  thus  far  proved  an  obstacle,  the 
relative  advantages  of  the  sexes  being  still  under 
discussion.  Nevertheless,  the  project  had  not 
been  abandoned,  and  in  that  suburban  retreat  of 
Monrepos  which  they  had  planned  for  their  old 
....  202  •••• 


A   LITTLE   CHILD   PLAYING    ABOUT   THE   GARDEN 


The  Real  Birthday  of  <Dorante 

age,  and  of  which  they  dreamed  at  night  before 
falling  asleep,  playing  in  the  imaginary  paths 
between  the  imaginary  flowerbeds  \yas  an  imag- 
inary child  of  undetermined  sex. 

In  one  of  the  pauses  of  her  husband's  narration, 
Madame  Joly  beckoned  the  child  nearer.  In  the 
pale-blue  eyes  was  that  devouring  look  which  the 
sight  of  the  forbidden  engenders  in  one  who  is 
hungry.  Madame  Joly  saw  this  look  and  made  a 
second  sign.  The  act  which  for  the  mother  be- 
comes commonplace,  even  irksome,  was  for  her  a 
precious  opportunity. 

"Would  you  like  a  peach?"  she  said  to  the 
small  figure  advancing  timidly  with  a  shy  air  of 
inquiry. 

A  peach,  in  November!  Equivalent,  as  stated 
on  the  menu,  to  a  whole  franc.  Casting  a  quick 
look  behind  her,  the  child  held  out  her  hand, 
seized  the  proffered  treasure,  and  hid  it  in  some 
mysterious  place  under  her  apron. 

"You  love  peaches?"  said  M.  Joly,  encircling 
the  slender  waist  with  his  arm  and  drawing  the 
child  to  his  knee. 

A  nod  for  answer. 

"They  do  not  grow  on  the  trees  of  Paris,"  he 
added  encouragingly. 

....  203  -• 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

The  child  shook  her  head.  Then,  gaining  confi- 
dence, "They  grow  in  Cormontreuil." 

"Ah,  you  are  from  Cormontreuil.  I  suppose, 
then,  since  peaches  grow  in  Cormontreuil,  you 
love  Cormontreuil  better  than  Paris?" 

Another  nod  of  assent,  and  after  another  s}- 
lence,  "In  Paris  there  are  no  orchards." 

"But,"  remonstrated  M.  Joly,  "Paris  is  so  gay, 
with  people  and  lights." 

The  small  fingers  were  playing  with  the  curious 
pendant  on  his  watch-chain  —  a  Japanese  gold 
coin  set  with  green  garnets. 

"There  are  more  lights  in  Paris,  monsieur,  but 
not  so  many  stars." 

"That  is  true,"  admitted  M.  Joly.  "I  had  not 
thought  of  that." 

"Run  away,  Dorante,"  said  the  host,  serving 
the  coffee  in  person;  "you  annoy  monsieur." 

"On  the  contrary,  she  amuses  me,"  said  M. 
Joly.  "Have  a  care,  Mademoiselle  Dorante,  I  am 
about  to  strike  a  match." 

The  child  retreated  to  the  skirts  of  Madame 
Joly,  from  which  safe  retreat  she  watched  the 
short  puffs  of  smoke  from  M.  Joly's  newly  lighted 
cigar. 

"It  seems  you  adore  Moliere,  since  you  name 
....  204  •••• 


The  Real  Birthday  of  ^Dorante 

your  daughter  Dorante,"  he  said,  addressing  the 
host. 

"Pardon,  monsieur,  she  does  not  belong  to  me, 
but  to  my  wife's  brother  —  who  is  dead,"  he 
added. 

"Ah,  that  makes  a  difference." 

It  not  being  clear  what  difference  was  referred 
to,  the  man  was  silent. 

"More  probably,  then,"  pursued  M.  Joly 
reflectively,  "it  was  a  whim  of  the  mother." 

"There  is  no  mother,"  was  the  curt  reply. 

"So  much  the  better,"  said  M.  Joly. 

This  time  the  man  thought  he  understood. 
"You  are  right,  monsieur,"  he  said,  turning  away. 
"One  mouth  to  feed  is  enough." 

Madame  Joly  had  lifted  Dorante  to  her  lap. 
Her  husband's  remark  astonished  her.  To  be  an 
orphan,  when  there  existed  people  who  were 
childless,  was  a  provision  of  Providence  which 
tormented  her. 

"Poor  little  one!"  she  murmured,  resting  her 
cheek  on  the  brown  hair. 

M.  Joly  moved  his  cup  to  one  side  and,  leaning 

forward,  crossed  his  arms  on  the  table.  Madame 

Joly  in  no  wise  resembled   the  Madonna  of 

Botticelli  in  the  Louvre,  yet  it  was  of  this  picture 

....  205  •••• 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

that  he  was  thinking.  Through  the  smoke  of  his 
cigar  he  saw  a  little  girl  with  brown  hair  playing 
among  the  parterres  of  Monrepos. 

"  Marie,"  he  said  softly,  for  Dorante's  eyes  were 
growing  heavy,  "you  have  been  wondering  why 
we  are  dining  in  the  Restaurant  des  Tournelles." 

Madame  Joly  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"I  knew  very  well  there  was  some  reason,"  she 
said. 

"Ah,  you  knew  that?" 

"Certainly.  That  note  —  it  was  so  evident." 

"To  be  sure.  I  had  forgotten.  And  so  you 
thought — " 

"  That  some  duty  interfered.  It  could  be  noth- 
ing else." 
."And  you  were  not  disappointed?" 

"I  did  not  say  that." 

"Well,  what  did  you  say?" 

"I  said  what  I  have  just  told  you,  that  only 
some  duty  — " 

"But,"  interposed  M.  Joly,  "on  this  occasion 
might  I  not  have  set  this  duty  aside?  A  woman 
loves  the  sacrifice,  even  of  honor,  for  her  sake." 

"She  forgives  it,  but  she  does  not  love  it. 
Besides,  you  are  incapable  — " 

"Let  that  pass,"  interrupted  M.  Joly  quickly. 
"....  206  •••• 


The  Real  Birthday  of  ^Dorante 

"The  question  is:  Why  are  you  here?  Have  you 
asked  yourself  that?" 

Madame  Joly  smiled  again. 

"Undoubtedly.  But  you  could  not  imagine. 
Well,  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  There  are  two  men 
at  the  table  behind  you  —  do  not  move  —  you 
will  wake  Dorante  —  look  in  the  glass  above  my 
head  —  the  one  with  the  monocle  and  the  white 
hands.  Those  hands  are  clever  ones.  They  have 
accomplished  a  miracle  —  since  they  have  repro- 
duced a  note  of  the  Bank  of  France,  which  experts 
have  always  declared  impossible.  Thanks  to  the 
amiability  of  the  uncle  of  Dorante,  this  miracle 
takes  place  beneath  our  feet,  perhaps  on  the  very 
spot  where  a  queen  of  France  of  whom  I  was  just 
speaking  consulted  the  oracles  of  the  astrologers. 
Well,  those  white  hands  will  wear  to-night  an 
ornament  not  made  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  Wait; 
he  is  going." 

The  two  men  had  risen  and  were  putting  on 
their  coats. 

M.  Joly  tapped  once  on  the  window. 

On  reaching  the  door  the  man  with  the  monocle 
passed  out  first. 

"Monsieur,"  said  M.  Joly,  crossing  the  room 
quickly  and  touching  his  companion  on  the 
....  207  •••• 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

shoulder,  "you  have  dropped  your  change."  In 
his  hand  was  a  two-franc  piece. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  said  the  man.  "I  have 
lost  nothing." 

"Pardon  me,  but  I  saw  it  roll  under  my  chair." 

"Come  on;  what  are  you  waiting  for?"  cried  a 
voice  from  the  hall. 

"  In  a  minute  —  I  am  coming.  Thanks,  but  I 
repeat,  you  are  mistaken." 

"I  insist  only  because  I  saw,"  said  M.  Joly 
politely. 

"Really,  monsieur,"  said  the  man,  who  was 
beginning  to  be  irritated,  "you  insist  too  much. 
I  tell  you  it  is  not  mine." 

In  his  embarrassment  M.  Joly  blocked  the 
passage  to  the  door. 

"But  you  must  admit  that  this  silver  belongs 
to  some  one." 

"Oh,  go  to  the  devil  with  your  silver  and  let  me 
pass.  I  am  in  haste  —  my  friend  is  waiting," 
cried  the  man,  brushing  his  tormentor  aside  and 
slamming  the  door  behind  him. 

M.  Joly  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"If  I  am  not  mistaken,"  he  said,  resuming  his 
seat,  "and  if  that  beggar,  Pichon,  who  is  outside, 
acts  with  his  customary  promptness,  the  gentle- 
....  208  .... 


The  Real  Birthday  of  ^Dorante 

man  will  not  overtake  his  friend  this  evening. 
Marie,  Pichon  will  never  get  over  it  —  to  be  mis- 
taken for  a  beggar!" 

Madame  Joly,  jealous  of  her  husband's  repu- 
tation for  sagacity,  refrained  again. 

"It  is  now  the  turn  of  M.  Bibeault.  Marie,"  — 
his  voice  fell  again  into  its  second  manner, — 
"does  it  not  seem  to  you  that  for  a  man  who  is 
about  to  lodge  at  the  expense  of  the  State  a  child 
is  a  superfluity?" 

Madame  Joly's  eyes  opened  wide.  She  under- 
stood, but  she  refused  to  believe.  At  the  same 
time  her  arms  tightened  about  Dorante. 

M.  Joly  waited  patiently. 

"You  do  not  mean  — "  she  could  not  go  on  — 
it  was  too  incredible. 

"Why  not?"  said  her  husband. 

Why  not!  Because  it  was  so  contrary  to  all  she 
had  imagined.  Not  in  this  manner  had  she 
thought  to  select  the  heir  to  Monrepos.  For  this 
selection  she  had  prescribed  certain  conditions, 
and  it  was  not  in  the  Restaurant  des  Tournelles 
that  one  would  look  for  their  fulfillment.  If 
Dorante  had  been  brought  to  her  for  approval, 
she  would  assuredly  have  examined  her  critically. 
She  would  have  required  answers  to  a  thousand 
....  209  •••• 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

questions.  But  Dorante  was  sleeping  peacefully 
and  wisely  in  her  arms.  A  thrill  akin  to  that  which 
the  mother  knows  when  she  first  feels  the  touch 
of  the  morsel  of  humanity  which  the  nurse  lays 
at  her  side  wrought  in  her  a  strange  contentment 
and  peace.  Conditions,  even  the  question  of  sex, 
were  forgotten. 

She  made  a  feeble  effort  to  protest. 

"But  we  know  nothing  about  her,"  she  gasped. 

"What  does  one  ever  know  about  a  child  until 
it  is  grown  up?"  said  M.  Joly. 

Far  beyond  the  need  of  argument  or  persua- 
sion, Madame  Joly  was  not  listening.  In  truth  she 
did  not  know  of  what  she  was  thinking.  Visions 
were  succeeding  one  another,  strange,  incredible 
visions,  and  momentous  problems — of  what  colors 
were  becoming  to  brown  hair,  of  what  room  Do- 
rante was  to  occupy,  and  before  the  rising  tide 
of  this  new  life  and  joy,  she  forgot  also  to  re- 
frain. 

"  And  this  is  why  I  am  here  —  you  planned 
this  beforehand  — " 

"Marie,"  said  M.  Joly  diplomatically,  "more 
is  accomplished  in  this  world  by  grasping  an 
opportunity  than  by  foreseeing  one." 

The  room  was  empty.  A  solitary  waiter,  yawn- 

....    2IO    •••• 


The  Real  Birthday  of  'Dorante 

ing,  was  leaning  against  the  desk  where  Madame 
Bibeault  was  casting  up  her  accounts. 

"Monsieur  Bibeault,  the  bill  if  you  please." 

"Instantly;  I  am  coming." 

"Monsieur  Bibeault,"  said  M.  Joly,  scanning 
the  bill,  "I  see  that  you  are  a  man  of  heart." 

The  man  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"Since  you  provide  for  those  in  need,"  ex- 
plained M.  Joly,  designating  the  sleeping  Dorante. 

"Dame!  Monsieur,"  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoul- 
ders, "one  does  what  one  must." 

"  Fortunately,  you  have  here  a  good  business. 

"By  no  means,  monsieur.  I  have  on  my  hands 
a  bad  affair.  The  situation  is  impossible.  No  one 
frequents  this  square  but  nursery-maids  and 
babies." 

M.  Joly,  thoughtful,  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"  Why,  then,  do  you  not  find  some  benevolent 
person  to  whom  God  has  denied  the  blessing  of 
children?" 

The  man  laughed.  "Such  customers  do  not 
come  to  the  Restaurant  des  Tournelles,"  he  said 
laconically. 

M.  Joly  pulled  a  chair  from  a  neighboring  table. 

"  Sit  down,  Monsieur  Bibeault.  I  wish  to  talk 
with  you.  I  am  such  a  person." 
....   211    •••• 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

The  man  gazed  at  this  singular  customer  good- 
naturedly.  The  joke  was  a  good  one. 

"Naturally  you  are  surprised.  You  do  not 
know  me.  Here  is  my  card  and  address.  You 
will  make  inquiries  at  your  leisure.  This  child 
pleases  us.  She  is  a  burden  to  you.  We  offer  to 
relieve  you  of  this  burden." 

M.  Joly  had  a  way  of  forcing  a  conclusion. 

"Monsieur — "  the  man  stammered,  dumb- 
founded. 

"But  on  certain  conditions,"  continued  M. 
Joly  imperturbably.  "It  is  necessary  that  Do- 
rante  should  be  happy.  Let  us  suppose  that 
she  remains  with  us  for  a  week.  At  the  end  of 
that  time,  if  she  is  contented,  if  she  continues  to 
please  us,  we  will  see.  There  will  be  some  legal 
formalities." 

M.  Bibeault  had  ceased  smiling.  It  was  im- 
possible to  misconceive  the  seriousness  of  this 
proposal. 

"It  is  true,  monsieur,  I  admit,"  he  said,  holding 
the  card  in  his  hand, "  the  child  is  a  burden,  but — 

"Go  consult  your  wife,"  said  M.  Joly  per- 
emptorily. 

Madame  Joly  listened  to  this  business-like 
conversation  in  a  kind  of  stupor.  Its  rapid  march 

....   212    •••• 


The  Real  Birthday  of  cDorante 

brought  her  back  from  dreams  to  reality.  She 
had  been  living  in  unreality  ever  since  the  cab 
had  turned  in  the  wrong  direction.  She  hovered 
now  between  the  two,  oppressed  by  a  twofold 
anxiety  —  doubtful  of  her  happiness  and  fearful 
of  its  loss. 

The  man  returned  with  his  wife. 

"What  is  this  nonsense  my  husband  is  telling 
me?  "  she  said. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  Dorante  awoke. 

M.  Joly  repeated  his  proposition.  The  woman 
listened  incredulously. 

"Mon  Dieu,  monsieur!"  she  said  evasively, 
"such  an  affair  is  not  to  be  concluded  in  a  mo- 
ment." 

"Every  affair  has  a  beginning,"  replied  M. 
Joly.  "Moreover,  I  give  you  a  week  in  which  to 
reflect." 

The  woman  looked  at  her  husband,  as  if  to  say, 
"It  is  worth  thinking  of." 

"Listen,"  she  said.  "As  you  say,  there  is  a 
week.  Suppose  now,  at  the  end  of  the  week,  we 
agree  —  I  say  that  merely  in  passing.  But 
monsieur  forgets  that  till  now  —  that  is,  for  these 
eight  years  —  there  have  been  expenses.  A  child 
is  not  fed  and  clothed  for  nothing  — " 
....  213  .- 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

"At  what  do  you  estimate  these  expenses?" 
said  M.  Joly,  taking  out  his  pocketbook  and 
pencil. 

Madame  Bibeault  exchanged  with  her  husband 
another  look,  which  said,  "Here  is  a  goose  to  be 
plucked." 

Profiting  by  this  look,  M.  Joly  tapped  twice 
gently  on  the  window. 

"Let  us  see,"  he  continued.  "To-day  is  the 
fifteenth  of  November.  Sixteen  —  seventeen  — 
eighteen  —  nineteen  —  twenty  —  twenty-one  — 
two  —  on  the  twenty-second  of  November — " 
To  her  amazement  Madame  Joly  saw  her  hus- 
band count  out  one  by  one  ten  notes  of  one  hun- 
dred francs.  "I  give  you  one  thousand  francs 
—  but  on  account.  On  the  twenty- second  — " 

The  door  opened  and  Pichon  entered. 

"Ah,  Pichon,  it  is  you! "  cried  M.  Joly  joyfully. 
"What  luck  brings  you  here!  And  to  think  that 
you  should  arrive  at  the  very  moment!  Pichon, 
I  am  concluding  a  bargain.  You  will  be  a  wit- 
ness. I  am  making  a  purchase  —  by  installments. 
Here  is  the  first,  count  them,"  thrusting  the 
bank  notes  into  the  hands  of  the  astonished 
Bibeault. 

But  M.  Bibeault's  eyes  were  riveted  upon  the 
....  214  •••• 


The  Real  Birthday  of  Koranic 

door,  where  two  agents  were  regarding  the  scene 
in  silence.  Fingering  the  notes  mechanically,  a 
pallor  crept  over  his  face. 

At  the  same  time  Pichon  began  to  smile. 

"They  do  not  please  you?"  asked  M.  Joly 
aSably.  "  That  is  unreasonable  —  since  they  are 
of  your  own  manufacture." 

The  man  retreated  step  by  step,  like  an  animal, 
stupid  with  terror;  then,  turning  suddenly,  sprang 
toward  the  service  door.  Wrenching  it  open,  he 
saw  another  agent. 

Madame  Bibeault  uttered  a  scream.  Dorante 
began  to  cry. 

"You  see,"  said  M.  Joly,  rising  and  buttoning 
up  his  coat,  "it  is  useless.  Pichon,  I  am  going 
home  with  madame.  Ask  one  of  your  men  to  be 
so  good  as  to  get  me  a  cab  —  it  is  raining.  In  an 
hour  I  will  be  back  and  make  my  report.  As  this 
is  no  place  for  the  child,  I  charge  myself  with  her. 
Meanwhile,  you  will  examine  Monsieur  Bibeault's 
cellar  —  it  is  said  to  contain  some  rare  vintages." 

"Marie,"  he  said,  as  the  cab  rattled  over  the 
pavement  of  the  Place  des  Vosges,  "I  owe  you  a 
thousand  apologies.  But  it  is  as  you  said.  A  man 
does  not  sacrifice  duty  for  such  a  woman  as  you. 


*Diane  and  Her  Friends 

The  woman  for  whom  one  sacrifices  honor  is  not 
worth  it." 

Holding  the  weeping  Dorante  close  to  her  heart, 
Madame  Joly  made  no  reply. 

"You  see  for  yourself  it  would  have  been 
impossible  to  leave  this  little  one  in  such  a  den. 
As  for  the  Fountain  of  Health,"  searching  hi  the 
dark  for  her  hand,  "we  will  dine  there  just  the 
same  on  the  fifteenth  of  November  —  by  the 
calendar  of  our  ally  the  Czar  of  Russia." 


IX 
THE  SILVER  PENCIL 

TNSPECTOR  JOLY  had  always  maintained 
JL  that  conclusions  were  more  important  than 
stability.  Not  to  change  one's  opinion  under  the 
pressure  of  evidence  was  the  proof  of  mediocrity. 
Yet,  after  voluntarily  retiring  from  active  service 
and  acquiring  that  suburban  retreat  which  had 
so  long  been  a  dream,  not  for  worlds  would  he 
have  admitted  to  Madame  Joly  that  any  disap- 
pointment lurked  in  the  dream's  realization. 

Monrepos  certainly  was  not  responsible  for  the 
disappointment.  The  reality  coincided  in  all 
respects  with  the  dream.  In  one,  as  in  the  other, 
on  opening  the  gate  between  the  high  inclosing 
walls,  one  saw  a  straight  walk,  freshly  graveled 
and  bordered  with  box,  on  one  side  of  which  was 
the  fountain  with  the  goldfish,  and  on  the  other 
the  arbor  where  he  was  now  sitting;  and  at  the 
end  of  the  walk  that  house,  a  little  naked  as  yet, 
being  fresh  from  the  hands  of  the  architect,  to 
which  he  had  looked  forward  as  a  very  heaven 
of  rest. 

....  217  •••• 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

Surveying  this  heaven,  M.  Joly  said  to  himself: 
"It  appears  one  is  happy  only  in  remembering 
or  in  anticipating.  That  being  the  case,  since  I 
have  nothing  more  to  anticipate,  I  am  like  the 
moon,  one  side  of  which  is  in  perpetual  darkness 
—  and  the  other,"  he  added,  with  a  sigh,  "shines 
only  by  reflected  light." 

Sitting  opposite  him,  the  cure  of  Saint-Medard, 
who  had  come  to  spend  the  day  and  found 
Monrepos  to  his  liking,  was  almost  asleep.  No 
master  of  ceremonies  would  have  presented  these 
two  to  each  other  with  the  idea  that  either  could 
afford  the  other  a  moment  of  pleasure.  It  amazed 
M.  Joly  that  so  superior  a  woman  as  Madame 
Joly  should  have  such  a  confessor.  It  also  amused 
him  —  for  what  could  a  woman  like  Madame  Joly 
possibly  have  to  confess? 

"Monsieur  le  cure,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "after 
Paradise,  what?" 

"After  Paradise,"  stammered  the  cure,  rousing 
himself,  "  there  is  nothing.  Paradise  is  the  sum  of 
all  things,  the  realization  of  every  dream." 

"In  that  case,"  replied  M.  Joly,  "I  advise  you 
on  going  there  to  hold  a  few  dreams  in  reserve, 
lest  even  Paradise  prove  wearisome." 

The  cure  relapsed  bto  silence.  To  disturb  his 
....  218  •••• 


The  Silver  Pencil 

state  of  mental  repose  was  for  M.  Joly  an  irre- 
sistible delight.  He  also  dearly  loved  the  cure's 
arguments,  drawn  from  sources  which  reminded 
him  how  old  was  human  thought.  But  the 
cure's  eyes  were  closing  again.  M.  Joly  observed 
him  a  moment  meditatively,  then  walked  down 
the  gravel  path  toward  the  gate. 

Just  within,  among  the  vines  on  the  wall,  hung 
a  bell.  In  the  earlier  days  of  his  retirement,  its 
call  from  the  outer  world  had  awakened  in  his 
breast  emotions  of  curiosity  and  hope.  But  he 
had  long  since  realized  that  the  stream  of  life  does 
not  tarry  to  converse  with  what  it  has  cast  up  on 
its  banks.  Observing  this  bell,  hampered  by 
encroaching  vines  and  yellow  with  rust,  M.  Joly 
was  muttering  to  himself.  "A  symbol  of  oblivion 
and  decay!"  when  suddenly,  as  if  in  indignant 
denial,  it  began  to  ring  violently. 

"Come  now,"  he  said  ironically,  "what  joke 
are  you  up  to?" 

For  answer  the  bell  rang  again,  this  time  with 
a  tone  of  imperious  impatience.  At  this  second 
summons  he  opened  the  gate,  to  find  himself  look- 
ing into  a  pair  of  blue  eyes. 

Instantly  he  dived  down  into  the  depths  of 
memory  and  brought  up  two  pictures:  one  of  a 
....  219  •••• 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

woman  crumbling  bread  to  the  fishes  over  the 
railing  of  the  garden  of  the  Hotel  d'ltalie  et 
d'Angleterre  in  Freyr,  the  other  of  this  same 
woman  ordering  his  breakfast  on  the  terrace  of 
Madame  de  Caraman's  villa  in  Bourg-la-Reine. 

"Madame  de  Wimpffen!"  he  exclaimed. 

A  smile  of  pleasure  came  into  the  blue  eyes. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  find  you,  Monsieur  Joly.  May 
I  come  in?  You  have  not  forgotten  me  hi  all  these 
years?" 

"His  thought  was  that  no  one  could  possibly 
forget  her,  but  in  his  momentary  embarrassment 
he  said:  — 

"That  is  not  to  my  credit,  I  have  such  a  good 
memory." 

She  answered  him  with  her  bright,  under- 
standing smile  as  she  stepped  within  the  gate. 

"Where  may  I  speak  with  you?  —  here,  on 
this  seat  by  the  wall?  Shall  we  sit  down  here? 
Will  you  please  tell  the  coachman  to  wait?"  And 
when  he  had  delivered  the  message  and  closed 
the  gate,  "Sit  down,  please,  Monsieur  Joly," 
—  making  room  for  him;  —  "something  has  oc- 
curred which  made  me  wish  to  consult  you.  You 
see,  I,  too,  deserve  no  credit,  having  also  a  good 
memory." 

....   220   •••• 


The  Silver  Pencil 

He  took  the  proffered  seat,  a  little  awkwardly, 
crossing  his  hands  as  usual  over  his  waistcoat, 
experiencing  at  the  same  time  that  feeling  of 
mingled  admiration  and  intimacy  which  this 
woman  had  inspired  once  before. 

"You  remember  the  mysterious  disappearance 
of  my  Cousin  Celimene's  necklace,"  began  Diane, 
digging  the  tip  of  her  parasol  into  the  gravel. 
"Well,  yesterday,  on  my  return  from  Bourg-la- 
Reine,  where  my  husband  and  I  were  making  my 
cousin  a  visit,  I  found  a  little  mystery  of  my  own." 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  M.  Joly  leaned 
back  against  the  wall  to  gain  a  fuller  command  of 
her  face. 

"Our  apartment  is  on  Boulevard  Haussmann, 
number  190.  During  our  absence  some  one  has 
been  searching  it — I  say  searching,"  she  repeated 
with  emphasis,  "because  nothing  was  taken.  On 
the  contrary,  something  was  left.  Examine  this, 
please.  I  found  it  among  my  lingerie,  in  my 
chiffonier." 

He  took  the  small  silver  pencil  which  she  held 
out  to  him,  and,  turning  it  slowly  over  in  his  hand, 
read  the  words  "L.  Pichon,  Inspecteur,"  en- 
graved on  the  side.  "What  carelessness!"  he 
thought.  But  he  said  nothing. 

....   221    •••• 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

"Perhaps  you  will  say,"  she  went  on,  "that  it 
does  not  follow  because  Monsieur  Pichon's  pencil 
is  found  in  the  drawer  of  my  chiffonier  that 
Monsieur  Pichon  himself  left  it  there.  But  I  have 
made  inquiries.  First,  of  the  concierge,  who  says 
two  men,  workmen,  came  with  a  permit  duly 
authorized  by  the  police  to  inspect  the  electric 
installation  in  our  rooms.  But  the  electric  com- 
pany deny  that  any  such  inspection  has  been 
ordered.  What  I  wish  to  know,"  she  said,  lifting 
her  eyes  to  his,  "is,  what  Monsieur  Pichon  was 
doing  in  my  apartment.  Naturally  I  thought  to 
write  my  husband,  who  remained  for  a  few  days 
at  Bourg-la-Reine.  Then  I  said  to  myself:  'No, 
he  will  be  furious  —  he  will  return  at  once,  and 
his  vacation  will  be  spoiled.  I  will  first  consult 
that  Monsieur  Joly  who  found  my  Cousin 
Celimene's  diamonds.'  But  it  seems"  —  her  eyes 
were  still  studying  his  face  —  "that  you  are  no 
longer  at  the  prefecture." 

"That  makes  no  difference,"  he  said,  with 
superb  disregard  for  the  Paradise  of  Monrepos. 

"At  first  I  was  indignant.  Then  I  reflected. 
When  the  police  search,  it  is  because  some  one  is 
suspected.  Who?  Of  what?  I  am  consulting  you 
professionally,  Monsieur  Joly." 

....   222    •••• 


The  Silver  Pencil 

He  waited  for  her  to  go  on. 

"There  is  Valerie,  my  maid,  who  has  been  with 
me  since  I  left  the  convent  — " 

"Madame,"  interrupted  M.  Joly  protestingly, 
"I  am  not  one  of  those  persons  who  believe  that 
to  extinguish  the  lights  is  to  make  one's  neighbor 
a  thief.  And  in  the  case  of  a  mystery,  which  so 
resembles  darkness,  I  refuse  to  entertain  suspi- 
cions whose  only  foundation  is  our  own  mystifica- 
tion. Let  us  begin  by  ascertaining  what  my 
friend  Pichon  has  got  into  his  head." 

"Oh,  you  know  Monsieur  Pichon?" 

"Intimately." 

"And  you  will  see  him?" 

He  rose.  "At  once." 

"How  good  you  are!"  she  cried  impetuously; 
"will  you  accept  a  seat  in  my  carriage,  Monsieur 
Joly?" 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  smiling,  "madame 
drives  too  rapidly  for  an  old  tortoise  who  between 
here  and  the  Boulevard  du  Palais  must  have  time 
to  reflect." 

One  foot  on  the  step  of  the  carriage,  she 
turned:  "You  approve  of  my  not  writing  my 
husband?" 

"Absolutely." 

....  223  ».. 


cDiane  and  Her  Friends 

"Wait"  — as  he  closed  the  door  — "my 
card." 

"You  forget  the  good  memory.  Boulevard 
Haussmann,  190." 

She  laughed,  and  he  signed  to  the  coachman. 

He  watched  the  carriage  till  it  disappeared 
beyond  the  turn  in  the  road,  then  stood  gazing 
thoughtfully  up  the  gravel  path  of  Monrepos. 
The  cure  was  still  sleeping  in  the  arbor.  The  bees 
were  droning  above  the  parterres.  The  goldfish, 
motionless,  lay  in  the  shadow  of  the  stone  coping. 

"Come  now,  friend  Pichon,"  he  said,  closing 
the  gate  of  Paradise  behind  him,  "  let  us  see  about 
this  pencil." 

An  hour  later  he  descended  from  the  omnibus 
on  Boulevard  du  Palais.  It  was  raining  and  he  had 
no  umbrella.  Buttoning  up  his  coat  and  lower- 
ing his  head,  he  made  a  dash  for  the  archway  of 
the  prefecture.  Although  the  clock  in  the  bureau 
of  the  prefect  struck  only  three  times,  the  lamp 
on  the  prefect's  desk  was  burning,  the  sudden 
summer  storm  having  enveloped  the  city  in  mid- 
afternoon  darkness.  Except  for  the  circle  of  light 
under  the  green  shade  the  room  was  in  shadow. 
In  this  shadow,  midway  between  the  desk  and 
....  224  •••• 


The  Silver  Pencil 

the  door,  stood  Pichon,  lately  promoted  to  the 
grade  of  inspector  in  place  of  Joly,  resigned. 

Pichon  was  often  taciturn  because  he  had  so 
much  to  say.  That  his  silence  on  this  occasion 
was  due  to  other  causes  was  clear  from  his  abject 
appearance.  Under  the  gaze  of  the  prefect  his 
figure  seemed  to  grow  smaller  and  to  retreat  still 
further  into  the  shadow. 

"So,  no  progress." 

The  prefect's  voice  was  cold,  and  Pichon 
remained  silent.  It  was  true,  he  had  made  no 
progress.  The  prefect  went  to  the  window. 
Through  the  veils  of  the  falling  rain  lights  were 
beginning  to  appear  in  the  neighboring  buildings. 

"What  a  pity  Monsieur  Joly  took  it  into  his 
head  to  retire.  You  used  to  work  together  so 
admirably." 

Pichon  winced.  Watching  the  prefect's  form 
dimly  outlined  against  the  window,  he  had  the 
sensation  of  being  slowly  effaced,  of  no  longer 
counting  for  anything. 

"How  often  it  happens  that  a  good  soldier 
makes  a  poor  general." 

Unable  to  dispute  the  truth  of  this  aphorism, 
Pichon  contented  himself  with  shifting  his  weight 
uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the  other.  At  that 
....  225  -•• 


^Diane  and  Her  Friends 

moment  the  prefect,  drumming  absent-mindedly 
on  the  window-pane,  in  the  flash  of  lightning 
which  illumined  the  room  for  an  instant  saw  a 
man,  struggling  with  the  storm,  crossing  Bou- 
levard du  Palais. 

"The  devil!"  he  exclaimed;  "and  to  think 
there  are  people  who  refuse  to  credit  miracles!" 

Pichon,  mystified,  pricked  up  his  ears.  Any 
miracle  which  would  put  an  end  to  his  misery  was 
welcome. 

"Speaking  of  Monsieur  Joly,  be  so  good  as  to 
say  I  wish  to  speak  to  him." 

Pichon's  mystification  changed  to  astonish- 
ment. One  would  think  M.  Joly  was  in  the  next 
room !  He  stared  at  the  prefect  in  a  sort  of  stupor. 

"I  will  look  for  him,  Monsieur  le  Prefet,"  he 
stammered,  collecting  himself. 

"That  is  unnecessary.  You  will  find  him  on 
the  stairway  or  in  the  anteroom." 

As  he  went  softly  out  the  door  Pichon  was 
aware  that  his  chief  was  smiling,  and  the  sense  of 
effacement  deepened.  In  the  corridor  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs,  to  his  amazement  he  saw  M.  Joly, 
and  from  force  of  habit  touched  his  hat. 

"Monsieur  le  Prefet  has  sent  for  you,"  he  said. 

"Well,  you  see  I  am  coming,"  replied  M.  Joly. 
....  226  •••• 


The  Silver  Pencil 

While  standing  before  the  prefect's  desk,  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  as  he  had  so  often  stood  before, 
M.  Joly  had  the  time  to  speculate  a  little.  He 
reasoned  that  if  he  was  sent  for  it  was  because  he 
was  wanted,  and  that  if  he  was  wanted  it  was 
because  some  one  had  failed  —  which  accounted 
for  the  dejected  countenance  of  Pichon.  Well 
acquainted  with  the  little  mannerisms  of  his 
former  chief,  he  waited  patiently.  Watching  the 
quill  pen  traveling  to  and  fro  in  the  circle  of  light 
under  the  green  shade,  he  said  to  himself,  "At  the 
end  of  the  fifth  line  he  will  stop."  But  at  the  end 
of  the  fifth  line  the  pen  began  a  new  journey. 
"Ah!"  thought  M.  Joly,  "it  is  something  seri- 
ous." 

At  last  the  pen  paused  and  M.  Levigne  looked 
up. 

"It  is  you,  Monsieur  Joly?  So  the  prodigal 
returns." 

M.  Joly  was  silent. 

"It  was  not  by  chance,  I  suppose,  that  of  all 
the  doorways  in  Paris  you  should  choose  that  of 
the  prefecture  to  escape  the  rain." 

"Monsieur  le  Prefet,  if  I  sought  shelter  within 
the  walls  of  the  prefecture  it  was  not  because  I 
expected  to  find  there  a  fatted  calf." 
....  227  — 


^iane  and  Her  Friends 

M.  Levigne  moved  the  lamp  to  the  edge  of  the 
table  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"What  a  lucky  dog  you  are,  Monsieur  Joly! 
Here  am  I  beset  with  perplexities,  while  )TOU 
can  pass  your  days  in  repose  without  a  care. 
You  call  it  Monrepos,  do  you  not?  An  excellent 
name." 

"He  will  continue  in  this  manner  two  minutes 
yet,"  thought  M.  Joly,  "then  he  will  come  to  the 
point." 

"But  what  astonishes  me  is  that  a  man  who 
possesses  such  advantages  should  be  wandering 
about  the  streets  of  Paris  like  a  dog  without  a 
home." 

"It  is  not  necessary  to  remind  Monsieur  le 
Preset  that  a  dog  is  the  most  faithful  of  animals." 

The  prefect  lifted  the  green  shade  from  the 
lamp,  which  now  cast  its  light  full  on  their  faces. 
"Good!"  said  M.  Joly  to  himself,  "we  shall  now 
know  something." 

"Monsieur  Joly,  there  is  a  wineshop  on  the 
corner  of  Rue  de  la  Colombe  which  has  a  room 
where  one  may  converse  quietly  with  a  friend. 
I  recommend  you  to  go  there  and  to  take  with 
you  Pichon  —  who  is  in  need  of  advice." 

M.  Joly  did  not  move. 

....  228  .». 


The  Silver  Pencil 

"Well,"  said  the  prefect. 

"  Monsieur  le  Prefet,  there  is  a  condition." 

"Ah,  there  is  a  condition?" 

"That  I  have  carte  blanche." 

"Come,  come,"  replied  M.  Levigne,  pushing 
toward  him  on  the  table  the  sheet  on  which  he 
had  been  writing,  "that  goes  without  saying." 

M.  Joly  folded  the  precious  paper  tranquilly, 
deposited  it  carefully  in  the  pocket  of  his  waist- 
coat, then,  seeing  the  prefect's  pen  beginning  its 
travels  again,  stole  noiselessly  from  the  room. 

Tormented  with  anxiety,  Pichon  was  pacing 
the  corridor. 

"It  is  such  a  pleasure  to  see  you  again,  old 
friend!"  cried  M.  Joly,  linking  his  arm  in  his. 
"  How  goes  it?  You  are  well?  Really,  to  see  you  is 
like  a  draught  of  old  wine.  What  do  you  say,  shall 
we  have  a  little  chat  together  as  formerly  in  the 
cafe  on  Rue  de  la  Colombe?  We  see  each  other 
so  rarely." 

"Then  you  do  not  remain  with  us?"  said 
Pichon,  as  they  went  down  the  stairs. 

"I,  remain?  What  an  idea!  To  risk  my  skin  a 
hundred  times  a  year  for  nine  hundred  francs! 
You  are  joking,  Pichon." 

"That  is  true,"  admitted  Pichon,  his  anxiety 
....  229  •••• 


^Diane  and  Her  Friends 

somewhat  appeased.  "Nine  hundred  francs  is 
very  little." 

"It  is  worse  than  nothing.  If  you  are  not  paid 
at  all,  you  receive  a  gold  medal  for  a  fine  action. 
But  if  this  action  is  paid  for,  you  are  not  even 
noticed.  It  is  impossible  to  be  a  hero  when  one  is 
a  mercenary." 

"I  had  not  thought  of  that,"  said  Pichon;  "but 
not  every  man's  wife,"  he  added  mournfully,  "is 
so  fortunate  as  to  receive  a  legacy  like  Madame 

Joly." 

"That  is  what  the  prefect  said  to  me.  'Mon- 
sieur Joly,'  he  said,  'you  are  a  lucky  dog.'" 

As  they  crossed  the  open  space  before  Notre 
Dame,  Pichon's  anxiety  returned. 

"  I  do  not  deny,"  continued  M.  Joly, "  that  some- 
times, when  I  remember  —  we  have  had  some  in- 
teresting quarter-hours  together,  eh,  Pichon?  Tell 
me"  —  entering  the  Cafe  de  PEsperance  and 
pushing  open  the  door  to  the  room  in  the  rear 
—  "tell  me,  is  there  anything  interesting  going 
on  at  this  moment?" 

"There  is  always  something  interesting  going 
on,"  Pichon  replied  moodily.  "Not  ten  minutes 
ago  the  prefect  said  to  me  it  was  a  pity  you  had 
resigned." 

....  230  •••• 


The  Silver  Pencil 

"Really,"  exclaimed  M.  Joly,  leading  the  way 
to  a  quiet  corner,  "he  said  that?  You  amaze  me." 

Pichon  sank  into  a  chair.  "But  since  these 
things  interest  you  no  longer  — "he  said,  plung- 
ing his  hands  into  the  deep  pockets  of  his  loose 
trousers. 

"Messieurs?"  inquired  the  waiter. 

"Ah,  Joseph,  it  is  you?  A  sir  op  de  groseitte,  if 
you  please,  And  you,  Pichon,  a  fine  champagne, 
as  formerly?" 

Pichon  nodded. 

"What  you  say  is  quite  true,"  resumed  M.  Joly 
when  they  were  alone  again;  "  these  things  interest 
me  no  longer.  Do  you  remember  that  little  girl 
they  called  Dorante  whom  we  found  at  the 
Restaurant,  des  Tournelles  in  that  affair  of  the 
Bank  of  France?  She  has  become  my  own  flesh 
and  blood.  I  am  teaching  her  the  history  of 
France.  In  the  month  of  May  we  go  into  the 
woods  for  primroses.  A  small  hand  slips  into 
yours  and  you  break  with  the  habits  of  a  lifetime. 
No,  my  friend,"  —  shaking  his  head,  —  "it  is 
finished." 

Moving  his  glass  uneasily  to  and  fro  over  the 
table,  Pichon  observed  him  doubtfully.  Distrust 
of  himself,  the  longing  to  profit  by  the  experience 
....  231  •••• 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

of  a  superior  intelligence,  and  a  sudden  resurgence 
of  loyalty  were  working  in  his  brain.  Against  this 
tide  he  struggled  for  a  moment,  then  set  his  glass 
down  sharply. 

"Comrade,"  he  said  abruptly,  "I  am  in  a  fix." 

"You  need  money,  Pichon?"  asked  M.  Joly 
sympathetically. 

Pichon  dismissed  the  suggestion  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand. 

"A  document  has  disappeared  from  the 
Ministry  of  War"  —  he  paused  hi  order  that  this 
fact  might  have  time  to  sink  into  the  mind  of  his 
listener  —  "an  important  document  which  has 
to  do  with  the  mobilization  of  the  army.  This 
document  was  deposited  in  the  safe  in  a  room  oc- 
cupied by  Colonel  de  Wimpffen,  a  safe  of  which  he 
only"  —  another  pause  —  "and  General  Texier, 
of  the  staff,  possessed  the  combination.  On  the 
morning  of  August  13,  Colonel  de  Wimpffen 
and  his  wife  go  to  Bourg-la-Reine  to  pass  a  few 
days  with  a  cousin.  On  the  i4th,  General  Texier, 
tak*es  it  into  his  head  to  consult  this  document. 
He  opens  the  safe.  The  document  in  question 
has  taken  wing.  He  sends  for  the  prefect.  The 
prefect  sends  for  me  —  and  where  we  began, 
there  we  are  now." 

....  232  •••• 


The  Silver  Pencil 

He  stopped,  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  room, 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  dropped  into  his  chair. 

"But  you  have  a  theory,"  said  M.  Joly;  "de- 
velop your  theory,  Pichon." 

"There  is  but  one  theory,"  replied  Pichon 
testily.  "Two  men  possess  the  key  to  a  combina- 
tion. One  is  above  suspicion.  There  remains  the 
other." 

"What  a  devil  of  a  logician  you  are,  Pichon! 
You  subtract  one  from  two  and  one  remains." 

Pichon  shook  his  head.  "Logic  is  a  fine  thing, 
Monsieur  Joly,  but  sentiment  is  still  finer.  This 
de  Wimpffen  is  a  friend  of  General  Texier,  who 
knows  him  from  childhood.  He  served  with  him 
in  Africa.  He  is  the  soul  of  honor!  We  have  heard 
such  arguments  before."  And  Pichon  shrugged 
his  shoulders  again  disdainfully. 

"  In  the  operation  of  subtracting  one  from  two," 
observed  M.  Joly  thoughtfully, "  there  is  always 
the  question  which  of  the  two  is  the  remainder." 
•  "Oh,  of  that  there  is  no  doubt.  Think  of  it! 
A  general  of  the  staff!" 

"In  that  case,  since  this  remainder  is  the  soul 
of  honor  —  one  consults  a  man  of  honor." 

"Parbleul  They  have  sent  for  him.  He  arrives 
to-morrow." 

....  233  •••• 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

M.  Joly's  hands  clasped  over  his  waistcoat. 
"And  you,  Pichon,  what  have  you  done?" 

Pichon  took  another  turn  in  the  room,  then 
planted  himself  squarely  before  his  companion. 

"To  consult  an  innocent  man  is  to  learn 
nothing.  A  guilty  man  denies.  Why,  then,  con- 
sult him  at  all?" 

M.  Joly  nodded  approvingly.  "I  understand. 
So  you  put  this  soul  of  honor  under  your  micro- 
scope. Tell  us  what  you  have  discovered, 
Pichon." 

"Nothing.  His  correspondence?  — he  has 
none.  His  friends?  —  irreproachable.  His  desk, 
his  apartment?  —  not  a  straw." 

"And  then?"  pursued  M.  Joly  encouragingly. 

Pichon  hesitated. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  he  replied,  the  desire  to  prove 
his  adroitness  overcoming  his  caution:  "when  a 
man  is  not  suspected,  he  becomes  careless.  This 
man  is  not  careless.  But  when  a  man  knows  that 
he  is  suspected,  he  becomes  troubled  —  that  is, 
he  makes  mistakes.  I  learned  that  Madame  de 
Wimpffen  was  to  return  to  Paris  alone,  and  I  had 
an  idea."  M.  Joly's  hands  tightened.  "I  said: 
'I  will  leave  my  tracks  in  the  den  of  the  fox  — 
I  will  make  them  so  plain  that  even  a  woman  can 
....  234  — 


The  Silver  Pencil 

see  them  —  and  this  woman,  alarmed,  perplexed, 
will  hasten  to  show  them  to  her  husband  —  and 
this  husband,  seeing  that  the  hounds  are  on  the 
trail,  will  betray  himself.'" 

"Really,  Pichon,  I  had  no  idea  you  were  cap- 
able of  such  cleverness." 

Pichon 's  face  wore  a  smile  of  self-satisfac- 
tion. "To-morrow,"  he  said  significantly  —  "to- 
morrow we  shall  see  something." 

"Has  it  occurred  to  you,"  said  M.  Joly,  after  a 
pause,  "  that  a  man,  distrustful  of  his  memory  — 
figures  are  so  elusive  —  should  make  a  note  of  a 
combination?  —  a  note  which  falls  into  the  hands 
of  another?" 

"Why?"  retorted  Pichon  obstinately;  "to 
what  end?  Two  men  do  not  forget,  or,  if  that  be 
so,  which  is  improbable,  in  an  emergency  a  safe 
can  always  be  broken  open." 

"Forgive  me,  another  question:  no  one  occu- 
pied this  room  with  Monsieur  de  Wimpffen?" 

"  Yes,  a  clerk,  one  Bulow  —  an  old  man  whose 
nose  is  in  his  papers  from  morning  till  night.  He 
lives  on  Rue  Monge,  No.  176.  Be  easy,  I  forget 
nothing.  He  is  under  surveillance." 

Studying  the  bottom  of  his  now  empty  glass, 
M.  Joly  appeared  lost  in  thought. 
....  235  -. 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

"Pichon,"  he  said,  at  length,  "if  you  should 
carry  off  from  the  Galerie  d'Apollon  in  the 
Louvre  the  crown  of  Napoleon,  what  would  you 
do  with  it?" 

"Darnel  one  is  not  so  naive  as  to  offer  the 
crown  of  Napoleon  for  sale.  I  would  demand  a 
ransom." 

"But  if  you  preferred  the  document  on  the 
mobilization  of  the  army  to  the  crown  of 
Napoleon?" 

Pichon  reflected.  "  I  would  make  a  copy,  and 
I  would  return  the  original  before  its  loss  was 
discovered." 

"Doubtless  that  has  already  occurred  to  you." 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  said  Pichon,  in  an 
offhand  manner. 

M.  Joly  took  out  his  watch. 

"Heavens!"  he  cried,  "five  o'clock  —  I  must 
be  off."  And,  rapping  on  the  table,  he  called  for 
the  score. 

"You  approve  of  what  I  have  done?" 

"How  can  you  ask  such  a  question?"  said 
M.  Joly  playfully.  "Have  times  changed  so  that 
nowadays  one  asks  for  approval  before  one  has 
succeeded?" 

"Even  afterward  one  is  not  sure  of  it,"  grum- 
....  236  -. 


The  Silver  Pemil 

bled  Pichon.   And,  the  score  being  settled,  they 
passed  out  into  the  street. 

"To  whom  is  this  affair  known?"  asked  M. 
Joly  as  they  neared  the  corner. 

"Except  to  those  I  have  mentioned,  to  no 
one  —  General  Texier,  the  prefect,  myself,  and 
you." 

"And  Monsieur  Bulow." 

"  Not  at  all.  When  Colonel  de  Wimpffen  went 
to  Bourg-la-Reine  he  said  to  him:  'I  am  going 
into  the  country  —  I  give  you  a  holiday.  On  my 
return  I  will  send  for  you.'  Consequently  he 
knows  nothing." 

An  omnibus  drawn  by  three  white  horses  was 
approaching. 

"Pichon,"  said  M.  Joly,  "you  almost  make  me 
regret  that  there  are  such  things  as  legacies  — 
what  you  tell  me  is  so  interesting.  I  am  dying  to 
hear  what  Madame  de  Wimpffen  will  do  when 
she  finds  — "  His  words  were  lost  in  the  rumble 
of  the  wheels. 

Pichon,  on  tiptoe,  shouted  in  his  ear,  "If  you 
will  come  to-morrow,  at  this  hour  — " 

"That  was  what  I  was  about  to  propose  to  you. 
Good-night,  Pichon.  Good  luck  to  you." 

After  all,  thought  Pichon,  gazing  after  the 
....  237  •••• 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

retreating  omnibus,  he  did  not  tell  me  why  he 
came  to  the  prefecture. 

Retracing  his  steps,  he  went  over  in  his  mind 
the  conversation  in  the  Cafe  de  1'Esperance. 
M.  Joly  was  certainly  right.  One's  first  endeavor 
would  be  to  replace  the  paper  before  its  absence 
was  discovered.  But  Colonel  de  Wimpffen  was 
still  at  Bourg-la-Reine  and  had  intended  to  re- 
main there.  Clearly  he  had  had  no  opportunity, 
nor  was  he  in  any  haste,  to  put  back  the  stolen 
document.  This  thought  troubled  Pichon,  for  it 
threatened  his  theory.  What  if  the  document 
was  already  back  in  its  place!  He  rejected  this 
idea  as  preposterous.  A  general  of  the  staff! 
The  alternative  was  inconceivable.  Yet  this  idea, 
having  once  found  a  lodgment  in  his  brain,  re- 
turned with  a  disquieting  persistence. 

Meanwhile  M.  Joly,  descending  from  the  omni- 
bus at  Place  de  la  Concorde,  was  following  Bou- 
levard Saint-Germain  to  the  Ministry  of  War. 
He  passed  in  unnoticed,  but  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs  an  usher  asked  what  he  wanted. 
"The  room  of  Colonel  de  Wimpffen." 
"Colonel  de  Wimpffen  is  in  the  country." 
"I  did  not  ask  for  Colonel  de  Wimpffen.    I 
asked  for  his  room,"  replied  M.  Joly  blandly. 
....  238  .-. 


The  Silver  Pencil 

"Since  Colonel  de  Wimpffen  is  not  in  town, 
naturally  his  room  is  closed." 

"Very  well,  then,  I  will  see  General  Texier." 

The  usher  eyed  him  superciliously. 

"Your  card,  if  you  please.  It  is  the  order." 

"My  card?  I  have  none.  Say  to  him  that  I 
come  from  the  prefecture." 

"  It  makes  no  difference  where  you  come  from," 
said  the  usher,  losing  patience;  "to  see  General 
Texier  a  card  is  necessary." 

"I  have  something  better,"  smiled  M.  Joly, 
"but  since  a  card  is  necessary  I  will  make 
one." 

He  tore  a  leaf  from  his  notebook,  wrote  his 
name  in  pencil,  and  while  waiting  in  the  corridor 
remarked  to  himself,  "It  seems  that  in  the 
Ministry  of  War  it  is  easier  to  penetrate  a  safe 
than  to  penetrate  to  a  general." 

When,  fifteen  minutes  later,  he  emerged  from 
General  Texier's  office,  he  was  accompanied  by 
a  secretary. 

"You  will  take  your  instructions,"  said  the 
latter,  calling  the  usher  and  indicating  M.  Joly, 
"from  this  gentleman.  Monsieur,  here  are  the 
keys." 

"The  room  of  Colonel  de  Wimpffen,  if  you 
....  239  •••• 


T)iane  and  Her  Friends 

please,"  repeated  M.  Joly  politely,  slipping  the 
bunch  of  keys  into  his  pocket. 

Reaching  at  last  the  door,  he  took  out  his 
watch.  "  At  what  hour  does  the  Ministry  close?  " 
he  asked. 

"At  six  o'clock,  monsieur." 

"It  is  now  twenty  minutes  of  six.  For  carrying 
out  your  orders  so  faithfully  I  present  you  with 
these  twenty  minutes."  Saying  which  he  unlocked 
the  door  and  went  in. 

He  first  relocked  the  door  and  removed  the  key; 
then  he  looked  about  him.  Midway  along  the 
side  wall  stood  a  mahogany  desk,  behind  which 
hung  portieres.  Behind  these  portieres  he  ex- 
pected to  find  a  door,  but  on  drawing  them  aside 
he  perceived  an  arch,  within  whose  recess  ap- 
peared the  partition  wall.  Evidently,  he  thought, 
this  room  once  formed  part  of  a  larger  one  which 
in  the  interests  of  economy  has  been  divided. 
Opposite  the  desk  was  a  door  on  either  side  of 
which  were  shelves  filled  with  books  and  paste- 
board pockets.  Pushing  a  chair  in  front  of  this 
door,  he  sat  down  and  took  out  the  bunch  of 
keys.  After  one  or  two  trials  this  door  opened, 
disclosing  a  safe  let  into  the  wall.  Without  hesi- 
tation he  took  hold  of  the  dial,  turned  it  succes- 
....  240  •••• 


The  Silver  Pencil 

sively  to  the  right  and  left,  till  the  massive  front 
door  swung  on  its  hinges.  Between  the  pigeon- 
holes another  smaller  door  confronted  him. 
Selecting  once  more  a  key,  he  surmounted  this 
last  barrier,  and,  thrusting  in  his  hand,  pulled 
out  a  heavy  blue  envelope  sealed  with  three 
seals  bearing  the  words  "  Ministere  de  la  Guerre." 
On  the  face  of  the  envelope  was  the  word 
"Mobilisation." 

At  this  instant  a  quick  step  resounded  hi  the 
corridor.  Replacing  the  envelope,  he  closed  the 
safe  and  stood  up,  listening.  Some  one  was  about 
to  enter.  He  had  barely  reached  the  portieres 
when  the  door  was  opened,  shut,  and  locked 
again.  Motionless,  holding  his  breath,  he  waited. 
A  few  steps  —  then  silence.  He  parted  the  cur- 
tains gently  —  and  saw  the  back  of  Pichon! 

Seated  in  the  chair  before  the  safe,  Pichon  was 
repeating  one  by  one  the  maneuvers  of  his  pred- 
ecessor. Finally  he,  too,  thrust  his  hand'  into 
the  inner  vault  and  pulled  out  the  blue  envelope 

"Thunder  of  heaven!"  he  exclaimed,  "I  have 
made  the  wrong  subtraction." 

After  astonishment  came  reflection.  Firmly 
wedded  to  his  theory,  he  found  himself  forced  to 
suspect  one  so  high  hi  the  hierarchy  that  his 
....  241  .- 


tCDiane  and  Her  Friends 

spirit  of  subordination  revolted.  To  impart  this 
suspicion  to  any  one  seemed  to  him  impossible. 
Yet  in  his  own  mind  it  took  the  form  of  a  convic- 
tion. Closing  the  safe  mechanically,  he  left  the 
room. 

Shortly  after  six  o'clock  M.  Joly  had  finished 
his  investigation.  The  hall  was  filled  with 
employees  hurrying  homeward.  The  expression 
on  his  face  indicated  that  some  problem  more 
difficult  than  Pichon's  subtraction  was  troubling 
him.  "But  why,"  he  muttered,  "if  he  is  deaf  — " 
Mingling  with  the  throng,  he  descended  the  stairs 
slowly.  At  the  entrance  he  accosted  the  por- 
ter. 

"Monsieur,"  he  asked,  "this  Bulow,  the  deaf 
clerk  of  Monsieur  de  Wimpffen  — " 

"Bulow?"  replied  the  porter;  "he  is  no  more 
deaf  than  I  am." 

"But  why,  then,  since  he  is  not  deaf  — " 

The  porter  thought  he  had  to  do  with  a  crazy 
man. 

"Norn  de  Dieut"  he  retorted  angrily,  "go  about 
your  business.  If  you  want  a  deaf  man  you  will 
find  a  number  of  them  in  the  Asylum  on  Rue 
Saint- Jacques  —  we  do  not  keep  them  in  the 
Ministry." 

....  242  •••• 


The  Silver  Pencil 

" Thank  you,"  said  M.  Joly;  "I  have  been  mis- 
informed." 

At  the  corner  of  the  street  he  found  a  com- 
missionaire, and,  tearing  a  second  leaf  from  his 
note-book,  sent  the  following  message  to  Mon- 
repos:  — 

"I  am  detained  in  Paris  for  the  night.  Say  to 
Dorante  that  she  may  read  on  as  far  as  the  battle 
at  Vouille,  where  Clovis  defeated  the  Visigoths 
under  Alaric  II." 

Then,  hailing  a  cab,  he  gave  the  direction, 
"Rue  Monge." 

"What  number?"  asked  the  driver. 

"Any  number  which  pleases  you,"  replied 
M.  Joly. 

As  he  anticipated,  the  cab  drew  up  at  No.  i. 
He  paid  the  fare  and  continued  on  foot.  Just 
before  reaching  No.  176  he  saw  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street  a  cafe.  The  sky  had  cleared  and 
the  tables  on  the  sidewalk  were  already  crowded. 
At  one  of  these  tables  a  man  was  seated  before  a 
tall  glass  of  black  coffee.  Seeing  M.  Joly  approach- 
ing, this  man  rose  with  a  gesture  of  surprise. 

"Do   not   disturb   yourself,   Meneval,"   said 
M.  Joly,  taking  the  vacant  chair  at  the  same 
table.  "We  are  in  the  same  business." 
....  243  .». 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

"You  are  one  of  us  again,  Monsieur  Joly?" 
asked  Meneval  respectfully. 

"You  used  to  take  orders  from  me  without 
asking  questions,  Meneval.  Are  you  alone?" 

"Yes,  I  am  alone." 

"Well,  go  and  tell  Pichon  I  wish  to  speak  with 
him;  and  in  order  that  your  conscience  may  not 
suffer,  I  permit  you  to  read  this." 

M.  Joly  took  from  his  pocket  the  paper  given 
him  by  the  prefect. 

"It  is  not  necessary,"  replied  Meneval,  recog- 
nizing the  prefect's  signature.  "I  am  going." 

"But  first  tell  me,"  said  M.  Joly,  deliberately 
tearing  the  paper  into  small  pieces,  "  what  manner 
of  man  this  Bulow  is." 

Meneval  described  him.  "There  is  a  light  in 
his  window  now,  the  third  above  the  thread- 
shop." 

"  Good.  Tell  Pichon  to  bring  with  him  what  is 
necessary.  You  have  your  pistol?  Slip  it  into 
my  pocket,  Meneval.  You  will  take  a  cab." 
Saying  which  M.  Joly  ordered  another  sirop  and 
the  "Figaro." 

The  light  was  still  burning  in  the  third-story 
window  when  Pichon  arrived  with  two  agents. 
His  face  still  wore  the  expression  of  surprise  and 
....  244  -. 


The  Silver  Pencil 

anxiety  with  which  he  had  received  the  message 
delivered  by  Meneval. 

"Sit  down,  Pichon,"  said  M.  Joly  in  his  quiet- 
est manner.  "Tell  me,  did  you  notice  anything 
in  particular  this  afternoon  when  you  opened  the 
safe  at  the  Ministry?" 

Pichon's  small  eyes  opened  to  their  widest 
capacity. 

"You  know,  then,  — " 

"  What  I  know  is  not  the  question.  In  fact,  as 
yet  I  know  nothing.  So  you  did  not  notice  any- 
thing?" 

Pichon  shook  his  head  blankly. 

"Nevertheless,"  said  M.  Joly,  "it  is  worth 
thinking  of.  If  agreeable  to  you  we  will  con- 
sult Monsieur  Bulow.  Will  you  accompany 
me?" 

Pichon  followed  him  across  the  street  into  the 
doorway  of  No.  176  without  a  word. 

"Pichon,"  said  M.  Joly  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
"you  remember  that  you  said  to  me,  'I  am  in  a 
fix.'  It  is  therefore  at  your  request  that  I  inter- 
fere in  your  affairs.  But  if  you  wish  —  will  you  go 
first?" 

"After  you,  master,"  said  Pichon. 

At  the  door  on  the  third  landing  M.  Joly 
....  245  ».. 


T)iane  and  Her  Friends 

knocked  gently.  A  moment  of  silence  intervened, 
then  a  voice  said:  "Come  in." 

M.  Joly  took  off  his  hat. 

"Have  I  the  pleasure  of  addressing  Monsieur 
Bulow?"  he  asked. 

"  That  is  my  name.  What  do  you  want  of  me?  " 

"I?"  replied  M.  Joly  — "I  want  nothing.  I 
come  on  behalf  of  my  friend  here,  Monsieur 
Pichon.  It  is  he  who  wishes  to  consult  you  on  a 
matter  of  importance." 

Pichon  glanced  at  his  friend  appealingly. 

"Be  seated,  gentlemen,"  said  M.  Bulow. 

"You  are  very  good  to  receive  a  stranger  so 
affably,"  replied  M.  Joly.  "The  truth  is  my  posi- 
tion is  a  delicate  one.  Monsieur  Pichon  is  afflicted 
with  an  insatiable  curiosity.  He  wishes  to  know 
why  a  man  who  is  not  deaf  provides  himself  with 
one  of  those  instruments  called  audiphones  —  or, 
if  he  be  deaf,  why  he  leaves  it  at  the  Ministry 
instead  of  carrying  it  on  his  person.  Keep  your 
seat,  Monsieur  Bulow,"  continued  M.  Joly,  taking 
the  pistol  from  his  pocket  and  laying  it  on  his 
knee.  "I  understand  your  feelings  —  do  not 
move,  please.  I  admit  the  question  is  an  imperti- 
nent one.  I  admit  even  that  I  have  no  authority 
to  ask  impertinent  questions  of  any  one.  For  that 
....  246  •- 


The  Silver  Pencil 

reason,  as  you  perceive,  — "  His  hand  closed  over 
the  handle  on  his  knee. 

Suddenly  regaining  his  composure,  the  man 
burst  into  a  boisterous  laugh  of  affected  gayety. 

"What  joke  is  this  you  are  perpetrating?"  he 
exclaimed. 

" Monsieur  Bulow,"  said  M.  Joly,  "it  is  plain 
that  you  are  saying  to  yourself  that  the  blue 
envelope,  with  its  seals  affixed,  is  reposing  safely 
in  the  vault  at  the  Ministry.  But  there  are  cases 
in  which  a  copy  is  of  more  value  than  the  original 
—  quick!  Pichon!" 

Of  all  this  conversation  Pichon  understood 
nothing.  But  if  his  brain  moved  sluggishly  his 
hands  deserved  no  such  reproach.  He  had  seen 
the  crisis  approaching  and  was  ready,  ending  the 
brief  struggle  by  transferring  the  handcuffs  in  his 
pocket  to  the  wrists  of  his  assailant. 

M.  Joly  went  to  the  window  and  made  a  sign. 
The  two  agents  appeared,  breathless. 

"One  of  you  call  a  cab,"  said  M.  Joly,  "and 
you,  Pichon,  go  down  with  Meneval  and  Mon- 
sieur Bulow." 

When,  at  the  end  of  a  few  minutes,  Pichon 
returned,  he  found  M.  Joly  also  ready  to  leave. 
"This  fellow,"  he  was  saying,  "is  a  simpleton. 
....  247  •••• 


IDiane  and  Her  Friends 

Here  is  the  stamp  whose  impression  you  doubtless 
observed  on  the  three  wax  seals,  and  here  under 
this  portfolio  is  the  copy.  I  give  them  to  you, 
Pichon." 

"But  I  understand  nothing,"  cried  Pichon. 

"Pichon,"  said  M.  Joly,  "I  once  read  in  a  book 
—  one  of  those  books  in  which  we  are  held  up  to 
ridicule  —  of  a  man  with  an  ear  so  acute  that  he 
could  hear  the  tumblers  of  a  lock  fall  into  their 
places.  I  did  not  believe  it.  I  do  not  believe  it 
yet.  Nevertheless,  given  a  lock  of  a  certain  age 
and  an  audiphone  —  do  you  know  what  an  audi- 
phone  is,  Pichon?  You  will  find  one  under  the 
loose  papers  of  the  third  drawer  in  Monsieur 
Bulow's  desk  at  the  Ministry  —  given  these 
things,  and  it  is  possible." 

"I  am  disgraced,"  cried  Pichon. 

"You  disgraced,  my  friend!  Why  do  you  say 
so?" 

"  I  have  left  that  damned  pencil  in  the  lingerie 
of  Madame  de  Wimpffen." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  replied  M.  Joly,  "be  tranquil 
Here  is  your  pencil,  Pichon." 

On  reaching  Monrepos  late  that  evening  M. 
Joly  said  to  his  wife:  — 

....  248  -. 


The  Silver  Pencil 

"Marie,  I  have  to  make  a  confession.  Passing 
this  afternoon  before  the  prefecture,  I  was  like  a 
boy  at  the  door  of  the  pastry-cook,  and  I  went  in." 

"I  know  it,"  she  said. 

"You  know  it!"  exclaimed  M.  Joly  hi  aston- 
ishment. 

"Do  you  think  I  have  observed  nothing  all 
these  weeks?"  said  Madame  Joly,  smiling. 

M.  Joly  made  no  reply.  After  all,  Paradise  also 
had  its  attractions. 


X 

HOW   DORANTE  CROSSED  THE 
RUBIGON 

DORANTE  always  addressed  M.  Joly  as 
"monsieur."  Having  no  recollection  of 
her  own  father,  it  might  be  supposed  that  when 
M.  Joly  assumed  the  paternal  r61e,  Dorante 
would  have  recognized  his  claim  to  the  paternal 
title.  It  is  not  to  be  inferred  that  because  she  did 
not  do  so  she  had  withheld  her  love.  She  adored 
him.  When,  dressed  in  her  best  frock,  she  went 
out  for  a  walk  with  him,  to  hold  his  hand  pro- 
duced in  her  a  sort  of  ecstasy.  That  M.  Joly 
returned  this  adoration  was  a  secret  Dorante 
had  discovered  at  the  very  beginning  of  their 
acquaintance.  Perhaps  the  very  fact  that  this 
man  who  had  rescued  her  from  poverty  and  toil 
was  not  her  father  had  something  to  do  with  the 
ecstasy  and  timidity  of  her  love.  For  Dorante,  if 
not  at  this  time  a  woman,  was  going  to  be  one, 
and  therefore  discriminated  between  the  affec- 
tion of  a  real  father  and  that  of  a  substitute  — 
that  is,  between  love  acquired  by  the  accident 
....  250  .». 


How  cDorante  crossed  the  Rubicon 

of  birth  and  love  inspired  by  herself.  To  say 
"father"  was  to  say  something  commonplace. 
To  say  "monsieur"  was  to  liberate  emotions 
which  gave  her  much  happiness  which  she  did 
not  comprehend. 

With  this  title  M.  Joly  was  equally  content. 
That  he  should  be  so  addressed  when,  a  stranger, 
he  first  took  her  hand  in  his,  was  to  be  expected. 
That  she  should  persist  in  so  addressing  him  both 
amused  and  pleased  him.  Dorante  had  not 
arrived  in  the  ordinary  course  of  nature  —  an 
event  which,  however  agreeable,  is  nevertheless 
to  be  expected.  Dorante  was  the  unexpected. 
Her  love  was  not  an  obligation;  it  was  a  gift.  In 
each  case  there  was  that  vague  sense  of  possessing 
something  which  was  not  a  primary  right.  Per- 
haps these  subtle  distinctions  were  the  result  of 
sex.  Perhaps,  if  Dorante  had  been  a  boy,  they 
would  have  vanished.  For  it  was  also  true  that 
from  the  very  outset  she  had  not  hesitated  to  call 
Madame  Joly  "mamma." 

On  none  of  the  new  duties  consequent  upon 
Dorante's  adoption  had  M.  Joly  entered  with  more 
enthusiasm  than  that  of  her  education.  Having 
peculiar  views  on  this  subject,  it  was  fortunate 
that  he  could  begin  with  a  blank  page;  for  the 
....  251  .». 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

atmosphere  of  the  Restaurant  des  Tournelles,  in 
which  Dorante's  earlier  years  had  been  passed, 
redolent  as  it  was  of  delectable  things,  was  sug- 
gestive of  drudgery  rather  than  learning.  In 
arithmetic,  for  example,  she  had  never  gone 
beyond  the  calculation  of  the  number  of  revolu- 
tions of  the  spit  required  to  roast  the  fowls  and 
joints  in  whose  subsequent  fate  she  had  so  infin- 
itesimal a  share.  In  this  direction  M.  Joly  con- 
fined his  instruction  to  the  lower  levels  of  the 
multiplication  table;  for,  he  said,  as  mathematics 
is  an  organ  of  expression,  and  as  Dorante  will 
never  have  any  ideas  worthy  of  expression  in  that 
language,  it  is  useless  to  acquire  it. 

In  history,  especially  that  of  his  beloved  France, 
he  had  his  own  methods.  When  making  an  excur- 
sion into  the  past,  he  followed  the  same  path 
which  he  took  in  their  walks  —  that  is  to  say, 
the  path  of  the  woods  and  the  flowers  —  with  the 
result  that  a  stretch  of  monotonous  white  road 
which  covered  her  shoes  with  dust  was  forgiven 
for  the  sake  of  the  mystery  and  charm  of  the 
byway  to  which  it  led.  Thus,  even  of  that  dreary 
and  chaotic  period  of  the  Merovingian  kings, 
Dorante  had  some  very  definite  knowledge,  her 
memory  being  tricked  into  obedience  by  such 
....  252  •••• 


How  ^Dorante  crossed  the  Rubicon 

romantic  details  as  that  the  slave  Ingonda  had 
become  the  wife  of  Clother,  and  that  the  great 
Queen  Fredegonde  was  reputed  to  be  a  witch 
with  a  magic  ring.  M.  Joly  himself  had  felt  no 
great  interest  in  Fre"degonde's  ring  until  after 
Dorante  had  proclaimed  its  importance.  Not 
infrequently,  in  opening  her  eyes  to  one  world, 
he  was  surprised  to  find  that  she  opened  his  to 
another,  and  that  while  he  was  beginning  her 
education  she  was  completing  his  own.  In  shar- 
ing thus  with  her  his  mental  estate  he  found  a 
number  of  coins  which  had  been  overlooked. 

The  fear  that  somewhere  in  Dorante's  unknown 
past  the  seeds  of  evil  were  waiting  for  their  spring- 
time had  gradually  faded  from  Madame  Joly's 
thought.  Dorante  was  uniformly  happy,  and  hap- 
piness rarely  mates  with  predestined  evil.  She 
illustrated  the  paradox  that  happiness  forgets  past 
misery,  though  misery  never  forgets  past  hap- 
piness. The  Restaurant  des  Tournelles,  from  which 
she  had  been  rescued,  before  whose  big  fireplace 
she  had  so  often  turned  the  spit  at  the  peril  of  her 
complexion,  had  passed  into  an  oblivion  which 
would  have  been  complete  but  for  an  occasional 
dream,  in  which  M.  Joly's  protecting  hand  was 
suddenly  transformed  into  another  —  a  hand 
—  253  •••• 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends  ' 

rough  and  hard,  which  had  a  disagreeable  habit 
of  cuffing.  She  awoke  then  with  a  start  of  terror, 
endeavoring  to  grasp  the  handle  of  the  spit  which 
in  her  sleep  had  slipped  from  her  tired  fingers  — 
to  realize  subsequently  the  immense  advantage 
of  misery  in  dreams  over  misery  in  life. 

Nevertheless,  entranced  as  Madame  Joly  had 
been  to  take  to  her  bosom  what  the  good  God  had 
not  seen  fit  to  give  her,  she  had  had  her  misgiv- 
ings. What  might  not  this  waif  from  the  nest  of 
criminals  whom  her  husband  had  tracked  to  the 
cellar  of  the  Restaurant  des  Tournelles  inherit 
from  her  mysterious  past!  She  had  therefore 
devoted  herself  to  that  branch  of  Dorante's  edu- 
cation to  which  M.  Joly  paid  no  attention  what- 
ever. Contrary  to  all  that  might  be  expected 
from  a  man  whose  life  had  been  spent  in  the 
detection  of  crime,  M.  Joly,  late  inspector  of 
police,  seemed  absolutely  oblivious  to  any  danger 
from  the  malignant  germs  which  might  lurk  in 
the  dower  bequeathed  to  Dorante  by  her  ances- 
tors. He  had  a  theory  that  with  good  material 
the  problem  of  education  did  not  exist,  and  that 
with  bad  material  it  was  hopeless.  Association 
with  criminals,  and  above  all  with  Madame  Joly, 
had  confirmed  his  theory  of  human  nature. 
....  254  •••• 


How  ^Dorante  crossed  the  Rubicon 

Madame  Joly  went  regularly  to  confession.  He 
had  ceased  to  speculate  upon  what  she  confessed, 
never  having  been  able  to  convict  her  of  anything 
worth  confessing.  He  classified  this  act  of  con- 
trition with  certain  other  harmless  luxuries  nec- 
essary to  normal  feminine  life  —  as  the  lace  and 
like  trifles  in  the  upper  drawer  of  Madame  Joly's 
chest.  He  even  shared  some  of  Dorante's  excite- 
ment over  the  white  dress  in  preparation  for  her 
first  communion. 

With  the  consummation  of  this  sacrament, 
Madame  Joly's  confidence  in  the  future  deepened. 
She  was  therefore  astonished  when,  one  day, 
M.  Joly  said :- 

"Wait  till  she  has  crossed  the  Rubicon." 

"What  Rubicon?"  she  asked,  looking  up  in 
surprise. 

'The  Rubicon  of  Knowledge." 

At  this  remark  Madame  Joly  became  lost  in 
reflection.  She  had  crossed  that  Rubicon  at  the 
door  of  a  little  cabinet  in  a  certain  restuarant 
known  as  the  Fountain  of  Health  —  not  at  the 
Mairie,  where  signatures  were  affixed  to  official 
documents,  nor  at  Saint-Medard,  where  the  cure 
had  mumbled  his  Latin,  not  even  when  friends 
kissed  her  cheeks  and  said  farewell  as  if  she  were 
....  255  •••• 


eDiane  and  Her  Friends 

setting  out  for  some  far  country  —  but  on  the 
threshold  of  that  cabinet  where  the  door  opened 
upon  the  little  table  set  for  two,  and  closed  upon 
the  world.  Her  head  bent  lower  over  her  needle, 
but  not  in  disquietude.  The  Promised  Land  had 
made  good  the  promise.  If  M.  Joly  had  not  been 
there,  the  needle  would  have  dropped  from  her 
hand. 

"Monsieur,"  asked  Dorante,  on  the  day  of  the 
ceremony  at  Saint-Medard,  "why  do  you  not  go 
to  confession  like  mamma?" 

"Dorante,"  said  M.  Joly,  unable  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment  to  explain  why  heresy  was  not 
synonymous  with  depravity,  "get  my  hat  and 
we  will  go  for  that  scarf  embroidered  with  pail- 
lettes which  you  admired  in  the  window  of  that 
brigand  who  sells  the  treasures  of  the  Orient  made 
in  Nuremberg." 

With  the  passing  of  years  Dorante  made  a  dis- 
covery. In  the  Restaurant  des  Tournelles  the 
strange  characters  on  the  menu  which  in  some 
mysterious  manner  stood  for  the  delicacies  in  its 
larder  had  often  excited  her  curiosity.  Why 
should  any  one  devote  so  much  time  to  the  study 
of  that  bit  of  pasteboard  in  order  to  satisfy  so 
simple  a  thing  as  hunger?  When,  later,  Madame 
....  256  -. 


DORANTE   IN    HER   CONFIRMATION   DRESS 


How  'Dorante  crossed  the  Rubicon 

Joly  had  with  much  labor  pieced  together  for  her 
these  strange  characters  into  words,  she  was  on 
the  road  to  knowledge  —  the  knowledge  of  all 
those  discoveries  made  by  her  forebears  and 
recorded  for  her  benefit  or  undoing.  Her  aston- 
ishment at  this  unexpected  freedom  to  satisfy 
her  curiosity  without  asking  questions  was  as  if, 
in  the  Restaurant  des  Tournelles,  permission  had 
suddenly  been  given  her  to  work  her  will  in  its 
larder. 

On  "monsieur's"  bookshelves  were  inexhaust- 
ible mines  of  information.  Not  all  that  she  found 
there  was  wholly  intelligible.  But  that  did  not 
matter.  When  she  did  not  understand,  it  was 
enough  to  wonder. 

It  was  not,  however,  in  a  book  that  she  made 
her  discovery.  The  book  had  only  said  —  it  was 
a  lady  of  the  Middle  Ages  speaking  through  the 
lips  of  a  troubadour  —  "  All  that  I  possess  would 
I  give  for  the  beauty  that  was  mine  on  that  day 
when  my  lover  kissed  me  in  the  wood"  —  and 
straightway  closing  the  book,  Dorante  looked  in 
her  mirror  and  made  her  discovery. 

"Monsieur,"  she  asked  one  day,  "is  not 
Dorante  the  name  of  a  man?" 

They  were  sitting  under  the  lime  tree  in  the 
....  257  .». 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

wood  of  Verrieres,  from  which  the  forest  paths 
radiated  like  the  spokes  of  an  immense  wheel. 

"Yes,  of  a  certain  nobleman,  a  count  or  mar- 
quis, in  one  of  Monsieur  Moliere's  comedies." 

Dorante  knew  this  nobleman  well,  having  made 
his  acquaintance  on  one  of  M.  Joly's  bookshelves. 
She  also  recollected  at  that  moment  that  the 
lover  who  had  stolen  that  kiss  hi  the  Middle 
Ages  was  a  marquis,  keeper  of  the  Marches  of 
Poitou. 

"It  does  not  please  you?"  asked  M.  Joly. 

"I  am  accustomed  to  it,  monsieur;  but  it  seems 
to  me  that  —  if  it  belongs  to  a  man  — " 

"Be  tranquil.  We  also  are  accustomed  to  it, 
and  those  who  are  not  so  will  not  on  that  account 
mistake  you  for  a  marquis." 

At  the  thought  of  being  so  mistaken  Dorante 
smiled,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  far  reaches  of  the 
forest  road  already  filling  with  shadows. 

"Are  there  marquises  at  the  present  time?  "  she 
asked,  after  a  silence. 

"They  exist,"  replied  M.  Joly  thoughtfully, 
"but  they  are  no  longer  of  the  same  importance." 

It  was  not  long  after  this  conversation  that, 
sitting  with  Madame  Joly  one  evening  in  the 
library,  he  said:  — 

....  258  ..- 


How  TDorante  crossed  the  Rubicon 

"Marie,  do  you  know  that  Dorante  is  seven- 
teen?" 

"Yes,  certainly." 

"And  that  — "  he  hesitated. 

"Yes,  I  have  been  thinking  of  that,"  said 
Madame  Joly  tranquilly. 

"You  have  been  thinking  of  what?" 

"Of  what  you  were  about  to  speak  to  me." 

"How  could  you  know  of  what  I  was  about 
to  speak  when  it  only  occurred  to  me  to- 
day?" 

"Why  to-day?"  asked  Madame  Joly,  looking 
up  quickly. 

"Why  does  any  idea  occur  at  any  time?" 

"It  occurs  to  me  often." 

M.  Joly  laid  down  his  book  and  took  off  his 
glasses. 

"Marie,  you  have  something  to  tell  me." 

"I?  What  should  I  tell  you  that  you  do  not 
know?" 

"Tell  me  what  I  know,  if  you  please." 

Madame  Joly's  needles  fell  into  her  lap. 

"You  observed  nothing  last  week  at  the 
theater?" 

"I  observed  Monsieur  Coquelin  and  Madame 
Bartet." 

....  259  -. 


T)iane  and  Her  Friends 

"And  in  the  garden,  when  Dorante  reads  with 
you,  you  observe  nothing?" 

"Really,  Marie,  one  would  say  I  was  entering 
upon  my  dotage." 

"No,  but  we  observe  different  things." 

"  Well,  are  you  never  going  to  tell  me  what  it  is 
you  observe  which  I  do  not?" 

"I  observe  that  when  sitting  in  the  arbor  you 
turn  your  back  to  the  wall  of  our  neighbor's 
garden." 

"Well?" 

"And  that  consequently  you  do  not  see  the 
young  man  at  the  window  which  overlooks  the 
wall." 

"That  is  true,  I  had  not  observed  him.  And 
this  young  man,  is  he  also  interested  in  the  House 
of  Moliere?" 

"Since  he  always  selects  the  same  evening 
which  we  do,  you  can  judge  whether  it  is  monsieur 
Coquelin  on  the  stage  or  some  one  in  the  audience 
who  most  interests  him,"  said  Madame  Joly, 
taking  up  her  needles  again. 

M.  Joly  watched  for  a  time  their  regular  move- 
ments in  silence. 

"Marie,"  he  said,  at  length,  "I  have  imagined 
that  some  day  Dorante  would  disappear  as  she 
....  260  .-. 


How  T)orante  crossed  the  Rubicon 

came  —  that  in  some  moment  of  aberration  — 
for  what  happens  to  others  when  the  blood  takes 
fire  might  also  happen  to  her.  I  have  thought, 
too,  of  those  ruffians  who  once  abused  her  —  that 
they  would  some  day  return  to  claim  her  —  for 
that  also  happens.  But  I  had  not  thought  of  the 
young  man  in  our  neighbor's  garden." 

Madame  Joly  smiled. 

"Have  you  made  other  observations  also?" 

This  tune  Madame  Joly  laid  aside  her  work 
altogether,  sitting  down  on  the  footstool  beside 
him  and  resting  her  cheek  on  his  knee. 

"Do  you  remember  the  seat  in  the  Luxem- 
bourg garden? " 

"By  the  Fontaine  de  Medicis?  Yes,  certainly. 
It  was  there  I  first  saw  you.  You  used  to  sit 
there  dreaming,  your  hands  folded  in  your 
lap." 

"I  was  not  dreaming." 

"  And  once,  as  I  passed  on  the  way  to  the  pre- 
fecture, you  looked  up  and  smiled." 

"Not  the  first  time." 

"Well,  no,  I  admit  it  was  not  the  first  time." 

"Nor  the  second." 

"In  those  days  I  was  not  keeping  account  of 
the  number  of  tunes  I  passed,  but  of  the  time  that 
....  261  •••- 


T)iane  and  Her  Friends 

must  elapse  before  I  should  pass  again.  At  all 
events,  you  confess  that  you  smiled." 

Madame  Joly  raised  her  head. 

"So  has  Dorante." 

"  The  little  wretch ! "  exclaimed  M.  Joly.  "  But 
why  have  you  not  spoken  of  all  this  before?" 

"  Because  for  the  past  few  days  this  young  man 
has  disappeared.  I  said  to  myself,  he  has  perhaps 
gone  away  altogether  and  will  be  forgotten.  But 
from  certain  signs  I  discovered  to-day  I  know 
that  Dorante  has  not  forgotten." 

Hitherto  M.  Joly  had  found  the  duties  of  pater- 
nity agreeable.  Now  for  the  first  time  they  began 
to  oppress  him.  There  had  never  been  in  his 
mind  the  least  doubt  that  Dorante  would  marry 
—  in  some  indefinite  future.  He  would  in  due 
time  select  a  suitable  companion  for  her,  with  the 
result  that  in  addition  to  a  daughter  he  would 
have  a  son.  It  had  not  occurred  to  him  that,  like 
Diogenes,  he  would  require  a  lantern  to  find  this 
suitable  person,  or  that  for  Dorante  there  should 
exist  a  Fontaine  de  M6dicis. 

The  truth  is  that  this  marriage, 'like  death,  of 

all  things  the  most  certain,  had  been,  like  death, 

of  all  things  the  least  thought  of.  The  buds  were 

swelling,  the  sap  beginning  to  flow,  and  he  was 

....  262  -.. 


How  T)orante  crossed  the  Rubicon 

not  ready!  Marriage!  What  uncertainties,  what 
tragedies  it  concealed!  To  transplant  to  an 
unknown  soil  a  plant  just  about  to  flower  was  to 
coquette  with  chance,  that  element  which  in  his 
professional  life  he  had  above  all  others  sought  to 
eliminate.  It  was  contrary  to  all  reason  that  this 
most  common  of  all  human  events  should  be  the 
least  subject  to  control.  Who  the  devil  was  this 
young  man  who,  without  asking  leave,  uprose  in  his 
life  like  an  island  from  the  sea,  to  disturb  its  peace! 
He  went  back  in  thought  to  the  little  girl  of  the 
Restaurant  des  Tournelles.  How  willingly,  how 
confidingly,  she  had  forsaken  the  old  for  the  new. 
To  be  sure,  that  was  only  natural.  No  one  would 
hesitate  to  exchange  blows  and  misery  for  caresses 
and  comfort.  Was  she  grateful?  Unquestionably. 
But  what  is  gratitude,  or  even  affection,  when 
opposed  to  love? 

"What  signs,  Marie?" 

"When  you  spoke  to  me  just  now,"  said 
Madame  Joly,  who  had  been  waiting  patiently 
during  these  reflections,  "I  was  about  to  confide 
them  to  you.  To-day,  while  you  were  absent  with 
Dorante  in  the  town,  I  entered  her  room  to  put 
away  the  clothes  which  came  from  the  laundry. 
While  so  doing,  I  saw  in  a  drawer,  hidden  under 
....  263  - 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

a  nightdress,  the  silver  box  in  which  she  keeps 
the  chain  you  gave  her  on  her  birthday,  and 
which  always  stands  on  the  writing-desk  by  the 
window.  'What  is  it  doing  here?'  I  said  to  my- 
self. When  I  had  finished,  as  I  was  leaving,  I  saw 
the  chain  hanging  by  her  mirror.  She  had  forgot- 
ten to  put  it  away,  I  thought;  I  will  put  it  back  in 
its  place  myself  —  and  I  went  again  to  the  drawer 
and  took  out  the  box.  Always  she  kept  the  key  in 
her  desk.  I  opened  it.  The  key  was  not  there. 
'  She  has  taken  it  with  her/ 1  said  —  and  replaced 
the  box  where  I  found  it.  At  that  moment  the 
key  fell  from  the  folds  of  the  nightdress.  I  opened 
the  box.  Inside  was  another  key  —  a  much 
larger  one." 

"Go  on,"  said  M.  Joly. 

"You  remember,  before  our  neighbor  bought 
from  us  the  land  which  adjoins  ours,  there  was  in 
the  wall  a  wooden  door  leading  to  the  kitchen 
garden  which  we  formerly  had  in  the  plot  where 
his  house  now  stands.  When  that  garden  was 
abandoned  to  him  the  door  was  closed  —  and 
then  forgotten.  It  is  now  quite  hidden  by  shrub- 
bery." 

M.  Joly  made  a  movement  of  assent. 

"And  under  the  key  was  a  paper,  on  which  I 
....  264  •••• 


How  'Dorante  crossed  the  Rubicon 

recognized  the  handwriting  of  Dorante.  Did  I  do 
wrong  in  reading  it?" 

"What  did  it  say?" 

"It  said,  'All  that  I  possess  would  I  give  for 
the  beauty  that  was  mine  on  that  day  when  my 
lover  kissed  me  in  the  wood.' " 

"The  devil!"  muttered  M.  Joly. 

"Within  this  paper  was  folded  another  — 
rolled  into  the  shape  of  a  little  ball  —  and  con- 
taining three  words  in  a  handwriting  which  I  did 
not  recognize." 

"What  were  those  three  words?  Speak, 
Marie." 

"Can  you  not  guess?  There  are  only  three 
words  which,  when  they  cannot  be  spoken,  must 
be  written,  and  which  no  wall  can  separate  from 
the  one  for  whom  they  are  destined." 

M.  Joly  was  silent.  It  was  useless  to  pretend 
that  he  did  not  comprehend.  He  went  to  the 
window,  drawing  aside  the  curtain. 

"She  is  asleep.  There  is  no  light  on  the  trees 
from  her  room." 

"Yes,  doubtless,  she  is  asleep." 

He  turned  toward  her,  throwing  up  his  hand 
with  one  of  those  gestures  of  mingled  incredulity 
and  distress. 

....  265  •- 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

"  What  you  tell  me,  Marie,  I  would  not  believe 
if  another  than  you  told  it  to  me." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  a  momentary  smile 
passing  over  her  face. 

"Such  things  occur  only  on  the  stage,"  he  said 
stubbornly. 

"They  occur  on  the  stage,"  replied  Madame 
Joly,  "for  the  reason  that  they  have  first  occurred 
elsewhere.  When  you  were  inspector  you  used  to 
tell  me  of  things  far  more  incredible." 

"Have  you  that  key,  Marie?" 

"No,  I  replaced  it.  Where  are  you  going? " 

"I  am  going  into  the  garden  to  get  the  air." 

The  night  was  warm  and  dark.  Stirred  by  the 
light  summer  wind  the  leaves  made  a  whispering 
sound.  His  hands  crossed  behind  his  back,  M. 
Joly  walked  slowly  down  the  gravel  path.  At  the 
arbor  where  he  was  in  the  habit  of  reading  with 
Dorante  he  stopped.  "The  little  wretch!"  he 
kept  repeating  —  "the  little  wretch!"  It  was 
only  by  repeating  these  words  that  he  kept  alive 
the  flame  of  his  resentment.  When  arresting  the 
counterfeiter  in  the  Restaurant  des  Tournelles, 
he  had  said,  "You  will  pay  with  twenty  years  for 
the  few  thousand  francs  you  have  enjoyed.  A 
laborer  at  three  francs  a  day  makes  a  better  bar- 


How  T)orante  crossed  the  Rubicon 

gain."  Why  should  Dorante  seek  by  stealth 
what  was  to  be  had  for  the  asking?  Was  there, 
then,  a  pleasure  in  what  could  be  possessed  only 
under  the  cover  of  darkness?  and  did  darkness 
itself  give  zest  as  well  as  cover  to  crime?  Bah! 
what  madness!  to  speak  of  Dorante  and  crime  in 
the  same  breath.  He  would  light  a  cigar.  To 
smoke  was  tranquillizing. 

A  distant  bell  was  striking  ten.  At  the  last 
stroke,  feeling  for  his  matchbox,  he  heard  a  sound 
—  yes,  the  sound  of  footsteps.  He  was  about  to 
say,  "  Marie,  is  it  you?  "  when  he  realized  that  the 
footsteps  were  approaching,  not  the  arbor,  by 
the  gravel  path,  but  the  gate  in  the  shrubbery, 
over  the  soft  turf.  He  returned  the  cigar  to  his 
pocket  and  listened.  Another  sound,  as  of  a  key 
grating  in  a  rusty  lock.  An  older  hand  would 
have  oiled  that  lock,  he  thought,  mechanically. 
Low  voices  warned  him  that  to  remain  was  to  be 
discovered.  He  stepped  out  softly  on  the  grass, 
and  sat  down  on  the  wooden  seat  encircling  the 
arbor. 

"Dorante,  dear  Dorante  —  how  good  you 
are—" 

"I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  good  or  not  — " 

"Oh,  yes,  you  are  good, since  you  are  here — " 
....  267  -• 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

"Please—" 

"But  I  love  you,  Dorante  —  are  you  not 
happy  as  I  am?  " 

"Yes,  I  am  happy  —  but  I  am  afraid." 

"Of  what?  Have  you  not  confidence  in  me? 
Tell  me  —  once  —  that  you  love  me?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  think  so— " 

"But  say  so,  Dorante  —  will  you  not  say  so  — 
I  wish  to  hear  it!" 

"I  do  — I  do." 

Silence.  M.  Joly  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Do  you  remember  the  day  I  first  saw  you? 
You  were  sitting  here  —  your  hands  folded  in 
your  lap  —  like  one  dreaming  — " 

"I  was  not  dreaming." 

"And  when  you  raised  your  eyes  to  mine  you 
smiled — " 

"Not  the  first  tune." 

M.  Joly  sighed.  He  saw  Marie  sitting  by  the 
Fontaine  de  Medicis. 

"The  second,  then—" 

"No,  nor  the  second." 

"Does  that  matter?  You  smiled,  and  at  that 
smile  I  loved  you;  and  you  —  did  you  not  love 
me  then  also  —  a  little?" 

"Perhaps  —  a  little  —  I  do  not  know." 
....  268  .- 


How  'Dorante  crossed  the  Rubicon 

"But  now  —  you  know  now?" 

"Hark!" 

"It  is  nothing." 

"Hush!  I  heard  something." 

"Dorante,  you  are  trembling  —  yes,  you  shall 
go  —  but  once  more,  tell  me  — " 

"Yes  —  yes  —  yes —  Oh,  I  am  afraid  —  let 
me  go  —  I  cannot  bear  it." 

"There  —  see  —  I  obey  you  —  you  will  come 
again?  — " 

"No  —  yes  —  I  do  not  know  — " 

"Dorante,  Dorante — " 

A  light  footstep  hurried  over  the  grass  and  all 
was  still. 

M.  Joly  had  made  up  his  mind.  To  the  entrance 
of  the  arbor  was  but  a  step,  and,  taking  this  step, 
he  drew  from  his  pocket  his  matchbox  and  began 
lighting  his  cigar.  By  the  light  of  the  taper  he 
saw  a  young  man,  pale  and  trembling. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said  quietly.  "We  will  have  a 
little  conversation  together.  It  is  true  that  it  is 
dark  here,  but  I  observe  darkness  does  not  prevent 
people  from  coming  to  an  understanding." 

"Monsieur — " 

"I  owe  you  no  apology  for  listening,"  pursued 
M.  Joly  calmly,  "for  if  I  had  not  listened  you 
....  269  ••- 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

would  not  have  heard  much  that  was  agreeable 
to  you.  Moreover,  in  one's  own  garden  one  is  not 
obliged  to  retire  to  some  distant  corner  at  the 
mere  sound  of  voices.  Have  you,  perchance,  the 
key  to  my  gate?" 

"Here  it  is,  monsieur." 

"Good.  Hereafter  you  will  come  in  by  the 
other  door,  which  has  a  bell  provided  for  visitors." 

"  Monsieur,  I  have  done  wrong  —  I  confess 
it." 

"At  the  prefecture  we  value  confessions  only 
when  we  lack  evidence.  Or  do  you  take  me  for  a 
priest  who  gives  absolution?" 

"Monsieur,  you  have  the  right  to  upbraid  me 
—  I  have  done  wrong  —  but,  believe  me,  I  love 
her—" 

"  Oh,  as  to  that  sentiment,  I  share  it.  Between 
us  there  is,  however,  a  difference.  In  expressing 
this  sentiment,  I  choose  the  daytime,  whereas 
you  prefer  the  night." 

"Monsieur,  I  entreat  you.  Mademoiselle  Do- 
rante  is  innocent  —  I  swear  it  —  it  is  I  who  am 
to  blame." 

"Have  I  blamed  her?"  said  M.  Joly  blandly. 
"If  there  is  blame  it  will  fall  where  it  belongs. 
But  what  is  done  is  done.  There  remains  only 
....  270  •••• 


How  T)orante  crossed  the  Rubicon 

Madame  Joly  who  is  ignorant  of  your  sentiments. 
Come,  then,  I  wish  to  present  you  to  my  wife." 

"But,  monsieur  — " 

"Oh,  Madame  Joly  is  a  most  amiable  person. 
Fear  nothing."  And  M.  Joly  led  the  way  up  the 
gravel  path. 

"Marie,"  he  said,  opening  the  library  door, 
"here  is  a  gentleman  who  wishes  to  pay  you  his 
respects.  For  the  moment  I  leave  you.  I  have  a 
visit  to  make." 

As  he  passed  through  the  gate  into  the  street, 
M.  Joly  saw  a  light  shining  in  Dorante's  room. 
"Ah,"  he  muttered,  "that  young  man  will  arouse 
the  whole  neighborhood." 

Closing  the  gate  behind  him,  he  hurried  down 
the  deserted  street  and  rang  his  neighbor's  bell. 
A  servant,  astonished  to  see  a  man  without  a  hat 
at  such  an  hour,  opened  the  door  grudgingly. 

"Is  your  master  in?" 

"He  has  not  gone  out,  Monsieur  Joly,"  replied 
the  servant,  recognizing  him. 

"Well,  then,  announce  me." 

She  led  the  way  along  a  narrow  hall,  and  threw 
open  a  door  at  its  farther  extermity.  Following 
close  upon  her  heels,  M.  Joly  announced  himself. 

A  little  old  man  in  a  dressing-gown  and  velvet 
....  271  •••- 


and  Her  Friends 

skull-cap  was  seated  at  a  table  loaded  with  books 
and  papers  and  lighted  by  a  single  candle. 

"Ah,  it  is  you,  neighbor,  at  this  hour!" 

"I  disturb  you?"  said  M.  Joly. 

"By  no  means,  by  no  means;  I  am  delighted. 
Sophie,  another  candle." 

"One  is  sufficient,"  said  M.  Joly,  bestowing 
on  Sophie  a  glance  which  said,  "Leave  us,"  and 
seating  himself  in  the  chair  offered  him.  "You 
will  pardon  my  visit  at  this  hour,  which,  as  you 
have  just  observed,  is  a  late  one.  For  that,  how- 
ever, it  is  not  I  who  am  responsible  —  but  your 
son." 

"My  son!  but  my  son  is  in  Paris." 

"At  this  moment,"  said  M.  Joly  dryly,  "your 
son  is  asking  Madame  Joly  for  the  hand  of 
Dorante." 

"What  are  you  saying,  Monsieur  Joly!  It  is 
impossible." 

"When  the  impossible  becomes  true,  in  tune 
one  gets  accustomed  to  it,  and  I  assure  you  I  am 
not  inventing  anything,  Monsieur  Laurens." 

"He  has  done  this  without  asking  my  permis- 
sion —  without  consulting  me!" 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  you  are  under  no  disadvan- 
tage. Dorante  has  not  consulted  me,  either." 
....  272  »« 


How  Dor  ante  crossed  the  Rubicon 

"But,  monsieur,  I  repeat,  this  is  impossible. 
I  have  other  plans  for  Edmond  —  I  — " 

"In  that  respect,  then,  the  advantage  is  mine. 
For  as  regards  Dorante,  I  have  made  none.  As 
to  yours,  they  are  impossible." 

"I  understand  nothing,"  said  M.  Joly's  neigh- 
bor, staring  at  his  guest,  bewildered. 

"Monesiur,"  replied  M.  Joly,  smiling,  "my 
life  has  been  spent  in  interfering  with  the  plans  of 
others.  At  the  prefecture  it  is  our  sole  business. 
It  is  with  regret  that  in  this  instance  I  interfere 
with  yours.  Whether  we  two  shall  interfere  with 
those  of  two  children  whom  a  wall  four  metres  in 
height  has  not  been  able  to  separate  is  the  ques- 
tion I  have  come  to  propose  to  you.  When,  tak- 
ing the  air  in  my  garden,  I  find  these  two  children 
exchanging  —  what  shall  I  say?  —  those  pro- 
mises which  to  persons  of  our  age  would  seem 
extravagant  if  we  did  not  remember  that  we  also 
were  at  one  time  inclined  to  indulge  in  them  — " 

"Monsieur  Joly,  you  amaze  me." 

"The  question  arises  whether  your  son,  who, 
as  I  said,  is  at  this  moment  asking  my  wife  for 
the  hand  of  Dorante,  is  worthy  of  that  hand,  and 
whether  the  hand  of  which  he  has  already  pos- 
sessed himself  in  my  garden  can  be  withdrawn 
....  273  .... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

without  doing  violence  to  the  heart  which  has 
surrendered  it.  I  have  not  the  honor  of  knowing 
your  son  intimately.  Doubtless  he  will  explain 
to  you  what  he  is  now  explaining  to  Madame  Joly 
—  Ah ! "  —  turning  to  the  door  at  whose  threshold 
appeared  a  face  radiant  with  that  hope  of  youth 
which  fears  no  obstacles  —  "here  he  is.  I  leave 
you  together." 

"  Papa !  Papa ! "  cried  Dorante,  springing  to  his 
neck  before  he  had  time  to  close  the  door  of  his 
library. 

"It  is  not  worth  while  at  this  late  day  to  begin 
calling  me  papa,"  said  M.  Joly,  half-suffocated. 

When,  some  months  later,  he  stood  for  the 
second  time  before  the  altar  of  Saint-Medard, 
and  Dorante,  on  tiptoe,  lifted  her  face  for  the  kiss 
of  blessing,  he  whispered:  — 

"  Well,  he  is  not  a  marquis  —  but,  as  I  once 
told  you,  marquises  are  no  longer  of  the  same 
importance." 


XI 

THE   AMBASSADOR 

MDE  SADE  was  visibly  disturbed.  Some- 
.  what  late  in  life  he  had  conceived  for 
Diane  de  Wimpffen  one  of  those  admirations 
untainted  by  the  desire  of  possession.  He  con- 
cealed this  admiration  under  an  affectation  of 
cynicism  which  almost  deceived  himself.  But  it 
did  not  deceive  Madame  de  Wimpffen.  Well 
aware  both  of  the  admiration  and  of  its  charac- 
ter, she  counted  upon  him  as  upon  an  ally  with 
whom  a  formal  treaty  is  unnecessary. 

Like  many  alliances,  this  one  had  had  its  birth 
in  hostility.  But  that  was  long  ago. 

There  had  been  a  wedding  at  the  Madeleine. 
M.  de  Sade  stood  upon  the  steps  as  the  guests 
dispersed,  thoughtful  and  undecided.  As  a  man 
of  the  world  he  made  light  of  all  expansions  of  the 
heart  —  while  secretly  cherishing  one.  During 
the  pauses  of  the  service  Madame  de  Balloy  had 
confided  to  him  that  she  had  the  day  before  asked 
on  behalf  of  her  son  the  hand  of  Anne  —  and 
Anne  was  the  daughter  of  Madame  de  Wimpffen. 
...:  275  ..... 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

He  was  not  the  guardian  of  that  hand.  That  some 
one  would  some  day  aspire  to  it  was  inevitable. 
He  had  foreseen  that  contingency,  but  never  in 
the  person  of  M.  de  B alloy  —  that  idiot  who  was 
squandering  his  fortune  at  baccarat  and  flaunting 
Mademoiselle  Luna  of  the  Varietes  in  the  face  of 
all  Paris  except  his  mother.  The  fact  that 
Madame  de  Balloy's  confidential  communication 
had  been  made  at  a  wedding  rendered  it  the  more 
disagreeable.  Anne,  so  young,  so  fearless,  so 
innocent  —  and  so  like  her  mother!  The  thought 
that  if  he  were  younger  —  but  that  was  only  the 
shadow  of  a  thought  which  traversed  his  mind 
without  leaving  a  trace,  as  the  shadow  of  a  bird 
passes  over  a  landscape. 

Slowly  descending  the  steps,  too  preoccupied 
with  the  enumeration  of  M.  de  Balloy's  disquali- 
fications even  to  acknowledge  a  friendly  greeting, 
he  turned  up  the  Boulevard  in  the  direction  of  the 
Pare  Monceau.  To  the  shop-windows,  which 
generally  attracted  him,  he  paid  no  heed.  Ab- 
sorbed, his  cane  dangling  from  the  hands  crossed 
behind  him,  he  had  the  air  of  a  man  going  no- 
where in  particular  —  an  appearance  often  pre- 
sented by  one  who,  knowing  well  his  destination, 
has  not  yet  confessed  it. 

....  276  •- 


The  Ambassador 

Adjoining  the  park,  its  tiny  garden  protected 
by  an  iron  grille  whose  gilded  spikes  were  barely 
visible  above  the  enveloping  ivy,  was  the  small 
h6tel  of  which  M.  de  Sade  was  the  proprietor. 
He  had  recently  offered  it  to  his  friend  de 
Wimpffen,  who,  since  his  promotion  to  the  grade 
of  colonel,  had  been  assigned  to  duty  at  the  War 
Office.  For  M.  de  Sade,  not  being  burdened  with 
duties,  was  going  to  get  rid  of  the  summer,  and 
incidentally  some  of  the  boredom  of  living,  at  the 
seaside.  On  reaching  the  park  entrance  he  took 
out  his  watch.  It  was  eleven  o'clock.  He  had 
no  more  tune  than  was  necessary  for  breakfast 
and  a  change  of  costume.  His  seat  was  reserved 
in  the  express  which  left  at  two.  He  had  already 
said  farewell.  But  there  was  the  key  to  the  garden 
gate,  which  he  had  forgotten  to  deliver.  He  had 
intended  to  send  this  key  by  messenger,  but  fortu- 
nately it  was  still  in  his  pocket  —  to  serve  his 
present  purpose.  Yes,  certainly,  he  would  deliver 
it  hi  person. 

Just  within  the  ivy  screen,  at  the  little  table 
laid  for  breakfast  near  the  foot  of  the  steps  leading 
to  the  salon  windows,  M.  de  Wimpffen  was  read- 
ing "Le  Matin."  That  he  was  waiting  for  some- 
thing more  important  than  breakfast  was  evident 
....  277  -• 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

from  the  glances  he  directed  toward  these  win- 
dows. His  orderly  had  gone  for  the  morning  mail. 
There  was  also  the  Abbe  d'Arlot,  whom  Madame 
de  Wimpffen  had  persuaded  to  visit  her  and  who 
might  arrive  at  any  moment  from  Freyr.  But  it 
was  neither  the  orderly  nor  the  abbe  for  whom  he 
was  waiting.  Only  yesterday  Madame  de  Balloy 
had  formally  asked  for  her  son  the  hand  of  Anne. 
He  had  proposed  to  settle  the  matter  offhand  in 
the  blunt,  straightforward  manner  characteristic 
of  him,  M.  de  Balloy 's  reputation  not  being  such 
as  to  render  a  favorable  answer  within  even  the 
range  of  discussion.  But  Madame  de  Wimpffen 
had  said,  "  No,  Raoul,  leave  it  to  me  ";  and  he  had 
left  it  to  her,  with  a  good  nature  as  characteristic 
as  the  bluntness  and  a  confidence  justified  by 
long  experience. 

It  was  the  footstep  of  Diane  he  was  listening 
for,  and  in  spite  of  the  confidence,  her  prolonged 
absence  was  beginning  to  engender  misgivings. 
He  had  read  for  the  third  time  the  political  article 
in  "Le  Matin"  without  comprehending  a  word 
of  it,  when  the  glass  doors  opened  and  Diane 
came  lightly  down  the  steps. 

She  was  smiling.  It  was  a  good  sign. 

"Well,"  he  said  confidently. 
....  278  -. 


The  Ambassador 

She  was  sitting  now  opposite  him,  her  hands 
crossed  before  her  on  the  white  cloth,  tranquil  as 
the  June  morning  itself. 

"She  loves  him"  —  "Le  Matin"  fell  to  the 
gravel  —  "madly,  with  all  her  soul." 

He  stared  into  the  blue  eyes,  stupefied.  Their 
smile,  contrasted  with  the  finality  of  the  reply, 
perplexed  him. 

"Not  possible  —  not  possible,"  he  repeated. 

"But  true,"  said  Diane. 

Speechless,  he  continued  to  search  the  blue 
eyes.  Twenty  years  of  practice  had  not  enabled 
him  to  read  them  with  certainty.  As  M.  de  Sade 
said,  "They  are  too  clear." 

It  was  at  this  instant  that  the  lock  grated  in 
the  iron  gate  and  M.  de  Sade  himself  entered. 

"  Good-morning,  my  friends,"  he  said  gayly; 
"I  bring  you  the  garden  key.  I  am  off  by  the 
express  at  —  '  He  stopped,  fingering  his  gray 
mustache  and  looking  from  one  to  the  other. 
"What  has  happened  —  a  quarrel?" 

"De  Sade,"  exclaimed  Raoul,  bringing  his  fist 
down  on  the  table,  "  what  has  happened  is  this  — 
that  fellow  De  Balloy  has  asked  for  the  hand  of 
Anne." 

M.  de  Sade  deposited  his  overcoat  carefully 
....  279  •-•• 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

on  the  back  of  a  chair,  seated  himself  with  delib- 
eration, and  took  out  his  cigarette-case. 

"  I  see  nothing  strange  in  that,"  he  said.  "  Mon- 
seiur  le  Prefet  has  done  his  best,  but  the  race  of 
beggars  is  not  yet  extinct."  And,  lighting  his 
cigarette,  he  turned  to  Diane,  "With  your  per- 
mission, madame." 

"I  was  telling  Raoul  when  you  came,"  said 
Diane. 

"Begin  at  the  beginning,"  interrupted  her  hus- 
band. "I  wish  de  Sade  to  hear  also." 

"Well,  she  was  at  the  paino.  'Anne,'  I  said, 
standing  beside  her,  'I  have  something  to  say  to 
you/  She  looked  up  quickly  and  I  knew  that  she 
knew.  Therefore  I  went  straight  to  the  point. 
'  Monsieur  de  Balloy,'  I  said  '  has  asked  for  your 
hand.'  She  took  both  mine  in  hers  and  covered 
her  face.  Looking  down  on  her  bent  head,  I 
laughed  to  myself." 

"Diane!"  exclaimed  Raoul  reproachfully. 

She  spread  out  her  hands. 

"  At  myself,  in  her.  Do  you  remember  nothing? 
The  English  express  certain  things  better  than 
we  do.  They  say  '  to  fall  in  love'  —  which  is  the 
fact.  It  is  a  precipice." 

"And  no  parapet,"  nodded  M.  de  Sade. 
....  280  •••• 


The  Ambassador 

"De  Sade,"  cried  Raoul  resentfully,  "I  beg  of 
you." 

Diane  resumed. 

"'Anne,'  I  said,  'you  have  seen  Monsieur  de 
Balloy  twice  —  once  at  the  opera  and  once  at 
Madame  Texier's  ball.'  'Mamma,  dear  little 
mamma,'  she  replied,  looking  up  into  my  face, 
'I  adore  him.'  'And  you  are  ready  to  give  your- 
self to  a  man  you  have  seen  but  twice?'  'Yes, 
mamma,  I  am  ready  —  to-morrow.'  'But, 
Anne,'  I  said,  'do  you  know  that  this  man  is  a 
roue  and  a  gambler? '  '  To-morrow,'  she  repeated, 
burying  her  face  again  in  my  hands." 

Raoul  made  a  gesture  of  incredulity. 

"And  then  you  said  — " 

"I  said  nothing,"  replied  Diane. 

M.  de  Sade  nodded  again  in  approval. 

"You  did  not  reason  with  her  —  you  — " 

"Raoul,  years  ago,  in  Algeria,  if  my  father 
had  said,  'No,  she  is  not  for  you  — " 

"The  case  was  different,"  he  interrupted.  "It 
would  have  made  no  difference." 

"Well,  then,  you  see,"  she  replied  quietly. 

"But,  Diane,"  he  protested,  "between  Mon- 
sieur de  Balloy  and  myself  — 

"Oh,  I  know  that  very  well,  there  is  a  differ- 
....  281  •••• 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

ence.  Confess  now,  you  would  like  to  run  him 
through  with  your  sword  this  very  instant.  But" 
—  she  hesitated  a  moment  —  "between  Anne 
and  myself  the  difference  is  not  so  —  enormous." 

Behind  his  gray  mustache  M.  de  Sade  smiled. 

"  What  I  wish  to  know  is  this,"  persisted  Raoul, 
tapping  the  table  with  his  forefinger:  "did  you 
tell  her  plainly,  in  so  many  words,  what  manner 
of  man  — " 

"Yes,  I  told  her." 

"  And  what  answer  did  she  make?  " 

"Oh,  she  had  an  answer.  'Mamma,'  she  said, 
'you  once  told  me  that  you  loved  papa  without 
knowing  why,  without  a  reason.' " 

"You  had  the  imprudence  to  tell  her  that!" 

"Why  not?  It  is  true,  is  n't  it?" 

"Diane"  —  he  reached  across  the  table  and 
took  her  hands  — :  "  be  serious,  you  are  laughing." 

"No,  I  am  not  laughing.  I  am  quite  serious. 
You  think  you  have  to  deal  only  with  Monsieur 
de  Balloy.  But  you  see  I  was  right.  We  have  also 
to  deal  with  Anne  —  that  is,  with  you  and  with 
me.  With  her  truthfulness  and  obstinacy,  which 
is  you,  and  with  —  all  the  rest,  which  is  me.  Do 
you  remember  when  we  were  at  Freyr  how  pas- 
sionately, a  mere  child,  she  became  attached  to 
....  282  ••- 


The  Ambassador 

the  Countess  Anne?  How  she  insisted  she  would 
no  longer  be  called  Diane,  but  Anne,  and  wept 
with  rage  whenever  we  said  Diane,  till  we  yielded? 
And  now,"  she  said,  appealing  to  M.  de  Sade, 
"he  wishes  me  to  play  the  tyrant  with  her  affec- 
tions, the  one  liberty  tyrants  have  never  been  able 
to  suppress!" 

"  But  a  roue,  a  gambler!"  expostulated  Raoul. 
"How  is  it  possible!" 

" Bah! "  said  M.  de  Sade,  "  the  words  are  not  in 
the  catechism.  I  warrant  you  she  does  not  know 
what  they  mean.  Think  what  a  fascination  exists 
in  things  which  we  do  not  understand." 

Raoul,  walking  to  and  fro  on  the  gravel, 
stopped  abruptly. 

"And  you  wish  Monsieur  de  Balloy  to  teach 
Anne  the  meaning  of  these  words,"  he  exclaimed 
scornfully. 

"My  dear  friend,"  replied  M.  de  Sade,  "you 
have  not  asked  me  what  I  wish.  But  ask  madame 
if  there  exists  a  woman  who  would  not  prefer  to 
learn  from  experience  what  she  might  learn  with 
less  trouble  from  the  dictionary.  If  you  ask  my 
opinion  — ' 

"Yes,  we  ask  it,"  said  Madame  de  Wimpffen, 
observing  him  closely. 

...  283  »» 


Ttiane  and  Her  Friends 

M.  de  Sade  looked  up  from  the  blue  eyes  to  the 
blue  sky  above  the  roofs,  as  if  his  opinion  were 
not  within  immediate  reach. 

"Let  us  recapitulate,"  he  said,  addressirg 
Raoul.  "There  is,  on  the  one  hand,  Mademoiselle 
Anne,  who,  thanks  to  her  mother,  has  her  good 
points  —  not  to  mention  the  dot  promised  her  by 
the  Countess  Anne.  And  there  is  Monsieur  de 
Balloy,  who  possesses  all  the  good  qualities  of  his 
defects  —  not  to  mention  his  debts.  He  is  young, 
he  is  handsome,  he  is  witty,  he  dances  well,  and 
he  has  the  good  fortune  to  present  himself  pre- 
cisely at  the  moment  when  one  feels  the  imperious 
necessity  of  loving  some  one.  What  does  it  matter 
to  the  tendrils  of  the  vine  what  offers!  A  tree,  a 
leaden  gutter,  a  bit  of  broken  tile  —  it  touches 
and  it  clings." 

"De  Sade,"  broke  forth  Raoul  impetuously  j 
"you  know  very  well  this  marriage  is  impossible 

—  and  you,  Diane,  you  know  it  also." 

"Why,  of  course,  Raoul,  dear.  I  am  absolutely 
of  your  opinion.  The  idea  of  it  is  so  monstrous 
that  you  wish  to  stamp  on  it  with  your  foot.  But 
let  us  not  stamp  at  the  same  time  on  the  heart  of 
Anne.  Monsieur  de  Balloy  wishes  to  marry  her 

—  well,  let  him  wish.  To  wish  and  to  have  are 

....  284  •••• 


The  Ambassador 

not  the  same  thing.  I  will  say  to  Anne: '  You  love 
Monsieur  de  Balloy.  That  being  the  case,  it  only 
remains  to  be  seen  whether  he  loves  you.  On 
that  point  it  is  better  to  satisfy  yourself,  as  I  did, 
beforehand.  And  when  you  are  satisfied  you  will 
tell  me.'  And  I  will  say  to  Madame  de  Balloy, 
'Let  us  wait  and  see  if  these  young  birds  are  ready 
to  fly.'  Meantime  it  is  possible  that  that  angel 
who  is  said  to  tell  a  woman  that  she  is  beautiful 
will  tell  Anne  some  of  those  less  obvious  things 
which  are  far  more  important." 

Raoul  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"You  see,"  he  said  to  de  Sade.  "Diane  and  I 
agree  absolutely." 

"I  foresaw  it,"  he  replied  dryly,  resuming  his 
cane  and  overcoat.  "And,  now  that  we  are  all 
agreed,  I  must  be  going.  Might  I  see  the  dear 
child?"  he  asked,  lifting  Diane's  hand  to  his  lips. 
"If  you  will  allow  me  I  will  pass  out  through  the 
salon.  Ah,  the  garden  key  —  I  had  forgotten  it. 
Here  it  is.  Au  revoir,  my  friends."  And  he  went 
up  the  steps. 

The  salon  was  empty.  But  in  the  mirror  be- 
tween the  windows  he  saw  a  man,  tall,  correct, 
with  thin,  iron-gray  hair.  For  a  long  minute  he 
surveyed  this  man  critically,  then  touched  the  bell. 
....  285  »M 


^Diane  and  Her  Friends 

"  Say  to  mademoiselle  that  I  have  come  to  take 
my  leave." 

Then  the  door  opened  and  Anne  entered.  She 
came  forward  eagerly,  her  hands  extended. 

"You  are  going!  You  will  not  breakfast  with 
us?" 

"No,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  taking  the  ex- 
tended hands  and  touching  the  forehead  with  his 
lips,  "but  I  could  not  go  without  seeing  you, 
without — " 

"But  you  must  not  go  this  minute,  dear 
Monsieur  de  Sade."  The  clear  blue  eyes  were  like 
her  mother's.  "I  wish  to  speak  to  you."  She 
drew  him  to  the  sofa.  "Tell  me,  have  you  seen 
mamma?" 

"Yes,  certainly,  just  now." 

"Did  she  tell  you  anything?" 

"Did  she  tell  me  anything?  What  should  she 
tell  me?" 

"Nothing."  The  eyes  fell,  then  rose  to  his 
again.  "Monsieur,  do  you  gamble?" 

"I?  "he  laughed.  "What  a  question!" 

"Answer  me,  please.  I  wish  to  know  what  it  is 
—  it  is  very  important  that  I  should  know  what 
it  is  —  to  gamble." 

"To  gamble,"  he  replied,  twisting  the  ends  of 
....  286  ».. 


The  Ambassador 

his  gray  mustache  thoughtfully,  "is  to  risk  what 
one  has  in  the  hope  of  gaining  more." 

"Does  papa  gamble?" 

"I  think  not,"  he  said  doubtfully.  "One  must 
have  something  to  risk  —  to  gamble  properly." 

"Do  not  laugh,  please.  Some  day,  perhaps,  I 
will  tell  you  why  I  wish  to  know  about  this.  Then 
you  will  understand  how  necessary  it  is.  Tell  me 
truly,  is  it  a  sin  to  gamble?" 

"A  sin  to  gamble?  That  depends.  There  is  no 
sin  in  moderation.  For  example,  you  are  about  to 
breakfast,  which  in  itself  is  quite  harmless.  But 
if  you  should  eat  to  excess  — 

"Of  course.  What  is  it  to  gamble  to  ex- 
cess?" 

"To  gamble  to  excess"  —  M.  de  Sade  thought 
for  a  moment  —  "is  to  risk  what  one  cannot 
afford  to  lose,  to  incur  a  debt  one  cannot 
pay." 

"Oh,  that  is  frightful,"  cried  Anne.  "I  should 
die  if  I  could  not  pay  what  I  owe." 

"That  is  what  happens  to  some  gamblers,  my 
child.  They  go  to  some  quiet  spot  and  end  their 
lives  —  or  else,  sometimes,  they  look  about  for  a 
young  girl  with  a  dot  —  in  order  to  commence 
again." 

....  287  -• 


<Diane  and  Her  Friends 

Anne  was  silent.  Then  she  said,  gravely,  "You 
know  that  the  Countess  Anne  is  to  give  me  a  dot 
when  I  marry." 

"Yes,  I  know  it;  and  you  think  I  am  that 
gambler,"  he  laughed,  "who  wishes  to  pay  his 
debts  with  it!" 

"Oh,  no,  monsieur,"  blushing  furiously. 
"What  an  idea!  I  only  wished  to  know." 

"You  will  never  know  truly  till  you  gamble  a 
little  yourself,  Anne." 

She  burst  into  laughter. 

"Why,  I  have  only  the  gold-pieces  which  the 
Countess  Anne  gives  me  on  my  birthdays!" 

"Ah,  she  gives  you  gold-pieces  on  your  birth- 
day? What  an  excellent  idea!  Why  did  I  not  also 
think  of  that?" 

"But  you  gave  me  my  doll  Nanette,  which  I 
love  far  better." 

"Anne,"  said  M.  de  Sade,  "what  a  memory 
you  have!  It  is  not  possible  that  you  still  play 
with  Nanette!" 

"I  do  not  exactly  play  with  her,"  she  replied, 
thoughtfully.  "Formerly  I  played  with  her,  but 
now  —  now  she  is,  I  would  not  say  a  plaything, 
but  a  companion.  Do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,  I  understand.  But  what  I  do  not  under- 
....  288  •••• 


The  Ambassador 

stand  is  that  you  should  love  Nanette  at  all  —  a 
thing  of  papier-m;khe  and  sawdust." 

"One  does  not  think  of  those  things.  I  assure 
you  Nanette  has  quite  the  appearance  of  a  real 
person." 

"  I  admit  that  in  the  case  of  dolls  it  is  permissi- 
ble to  trust  to  appearances."  He  made  a  move- 
ment to  go. 

"Dear  Monsieur  de  Sade"  —  she  seized  his 
hand,  holding  him  fast  —  "please,  just  one  little 
minute  more.  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

"I  know  it.  That  is  why  I  am  going." 

She  looked  at  him  dismayed,  the  color  deepen- 
ing in  her  cheeks  again. 

"Anne,"  he  said,  holding  to  the  hand  which 
was  slipping  away,  "you  know  that  I  love  you." 

"I  know  that  you  are  always  kind  to  me." 

"That  is  not  the  same  thing.  No,  if  I  listen  to 
you,  if  you  should  tell  me  that  you  are  about  to 
gamble  with  what  is  more  precious  than  the  gold- 
pieces  of  the  Countess  Anne,  —  with  yourself,  — 
I  should  have  to  tell  you  what  would  cause  you  to 
say, '  He  is  unkind  to  me,  he  loves  me  no  longer ' : 
and  to  hear  that  I  have  not  the  courage." 

The  clear,  unflinching  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
"Monsieur,  I  will  have  the  courage  for  two." 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

"Oh,  Anne,  my  child,"  he  cried,  "how  like 
your  mother  you  are!"  He  had  risen  and  stood 
looking  down  on  the  rigid  little  figure  on  the  sofa. 
One  of  those  expansions  of  the  heart  which  he 
affected  to  despise  had  nearly  mastered  him. 
"  But  no,  believe  me,  I  am  right.  Tell  me  nothing. 
I  should  bring  against  you  all  that  belongs  to  my 
age  —  experience,  knowledge,  prudence  —  and 
you  would  answer  me  with  all  that  belongs  to 
yours  —  faith,  and  ignorance,  and  enthusiasm, 
and,  alas!  also  indignation,  and  I  should  be  de- 
feated." Midway  across  the  room  he  turned. 
"Anne,  you  have  said  you  would  die  if  you  could 
not  pay  what  you  owe.  You  cost  the  woman 
whom  you  call  mother  pain  and  blood  and  tears 
—  do  not  forget  to  pay  that  debt  —  it  is  a  debt  of 
honor." 

She  spoke  as  one  stunned.  "No,  monsieur,  I 
will  not  forget  it." 

"I  am  sure  of  it.  Good-bye,  my  child." 

She  followed  him  with  her  eyes  to  the  door. 
But  he  did  not  turn  again. 

Paui  and  blood  and  tears!  What  did  it 
mean? 

Precisely  at  the  moment  M.  de  Sade's  valet 
....  290  •••• 


The  Ambassador 

was  frantically  searching  for  his  master  in  the 
northern  station,  the  latter  was  standing  hat  in 
hand  in  a  little  Louis  XV  salon,  admiring  the 
taste  of  its  decoration.  At  the  door  the  servant 
had  said,  "Madame  is  not  receiving";  and  M.  de 
Sade  had  replied,  "Take  in  my  card  just  the 
same";  and  the  servant,  with  that  fine  instinct 
which  knows  when  to  disobey  orders,  had  bowed 
in  acquiescence. 

M.  de  Sade  in  the  mean  time  examined  the 
territory  of  the  enemy.  An  open  book  on  the 
canape  bore  the  title  "Causeries  du  Lundi,"  an 
indication  which  both  surprised  and  reassured 
him.  A  vitrine  filled  with  Sevres  and  Saxe  figu- 
rines interested  him  immensely,  for  he  was  a  con- 
noisseur of  precious  trifles.  Its  pendant  on  the 
other  side  of  the  console  was  devoted  to  jade, 
amid  whose  curious  branched  designs  elephants 
with  jeweled  eyes  paraded  and  Buddhas  slept  on 
teakwood  pedestals. 

At  the  rustle  of  a  dress  he  turned  to  see  a  little 
figure  with  Venetian  hair,  whose  complexion 
rivaled  that  of  the  shepherdess  in  the  cabinet, 
holding  his  card  in  its  hand  and  inspecting  him 
with  a  frank  curiosity.  For  a 'moment  he  was 
possessed  by  the  illusion  that  one  of  the  figurines 
....  291  •- 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

in  the  vitrine  had  stepped  down  from  its  glass 
shelf  to  confront  him. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  bowing,  "I  owe  you  a 
thousand  apologies  for  disturbing  you  at  this 
hour." 

The  little  figure  dropped  into  the  chair  of 
Aubusson  tapestry,  self-poised  and  expectant. 

"  I  have  not  the  honor  to  know  you,  monsieur," 
it  said. 

"That  happens  often  hi  the  case  of  celebrities," 
replied  M.  de  Sade  gallantly.  "I  am  only  one  of 
the  orchestra  chairs.  But  I  have  something  seri- 
ous to  say  to  you,  and  when  I  have  a  serious 
thought  in  my  head  I  have  no  peace  till  its  ghost 
is  laid." 

"Monsieur,"  the  little  figure  replied  in  a 
business-like  manner  foreign  to  Dresden  shep- 
herdesses, "I  give  you  fifteen  minutes  to  lay  your 
ghost,  for  I  also  have  a  serious  matter  in  hand. 
At  half-past  two  I  have  an  appointment  at 
Drecoll's  for  a  last  fitting." 

"Let  us,  then,  come  quickly  to  the  point,"  said 
M.  de  Sade,  sitting  down  beside  the  morocco- 
bound  "Causeries."  "But  first  I  must  confess 
to  you  that  I  am  an  ambassador  without  cre- 
dentials. For  when  one  is  deeply  interested  in 
....  292  •••• 


The  Ambassador 

the  welfare  of  any  one,  in  an  emergency  one 
does  not  wait  for  the  formality  of  documents. 
Moreover,  in  this  case  they  would  not  be  forth- 
coming." 

"Monsieur  counts,  then,  on  his  superior  judg- 
ment." 

"And  on  your  indulgence.  Imagine  a  young 
girl,  fearless,  innocent,  at  that  age  when  one  de- 
fies the  world  in  order  to  commit  a  folly.  For  ma- 
dame  who  is  herself  so  near  that  age,  to  imagine 
such  a  — " 

"They  exist  in  every  forest.  Proceed,  I  beg  of 
you." 

"Into  the  forest  in  question,"  continued  M.  de 
Sade,  "  comes  a  man  —  I  might  even  say  a 
hunter—" 

"And  the  folly  is  committed." 

"Oh,  no,  madame,  you  proceed  too  rapidly. 
But  on  some  bright  morning,  at  Saint-Roch,  or 
under  the  patronage  of  some  other  distinguished 
member  of  the  company  of  saints  — 

"I  understand.  But  I?  Why  should  this  folly 
interest  me?" 

"  Because,  madame,  the  name  of  this  hunter  is 
Monsieur  de  Balloy." 

The  figure  in  the  Aubusson  chair  did  not  move, 


cDiane  and  Her  Friends 

but  a  look  of  quick  intelligence  passed  over  the 
face. 

"Ah!  So  you  wish  me  to  assume  the  r61e  of  la 
Dame  aux  Camelias  —  to  surrender  Monsieur  de 
Balloy  to  Mademoiselle  Innocence." 

"  On  the  contrary,  madame,  I  wish  you  to  keep 
him." 

"Monsieur  PAmbassadeur,  you  come  too  late. 
Monsieur  de  Balloy  and  I  have  quarreled." 

Here  M.  de  Sade  lost  one  of  his  precious  min- 
utes in  reflection. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said  at  last,  —  "pardon  me  if 
I  am  about  to  commit  an  indiscretion.  But  quar- 
rels proceed  from  grievances.  Those  of  Monsieur 
de  Balloy  do  not  interest  me  —  but  yours,  if  per- 
chance they  were  of  such  a  nature  as  to  excite  in 
you  a  sympathy  for  those  who  have  not  yet  quar- 
reled but  are  sure  to  do  so  hereafter  —  if  you 
whose  eyes  are  opened  would  consent  to  touch 
those  that  are  yet  blind  — " 

"Monsieur,  there  remain  exactly  eleven  min- 
utes. What  do  you  wish  of  me?" 

"Madame,"  said  M.  de  Sade,  "if  your  charity 
toward  Monsieur  de  Balloy  does  not  exceed  that 
for  my  friend  —  I  say  friend  because,  as  you  per- 
ceive, I  am  too  old  for  the  role  of  lover  — " 
....  294  •••• 


The  Ambassador 

"Really,  Monsieur  de  Sade,  I  believe  you 
would  make  an  excellent  one." 

"On  the  stage  possibly.  But  permit  me  to 
remind  you  that  we  have  but  ten  minutes  left. 
You  have  had  the  grace  to  ask  what  I  wish  of  you. 
In  so  doing  you  use  a  word  which  is  not  in  the 
vocabulary  of  suppliants — but  if  you  will  allow 
me  — "  He  went  to  the  desk  by  the  window,  took 
a  sheet  of  note-paper  from  the  portfolio,  and 
began  to  write  rapidly,  conscious  meanwhile  that 
the  figurine  had  left  its  seat  and  was  standing 
over  him. 

"MADEMOISELLE,  —  Monsieur  de  Balloy  as- 
pires to  your  hand.  In  exchange  he  offers  you  — 
what!  A  heart  without  honor.  But  black  as  is 
that  heart,  it  is  mine,  and  I  will  not  surrender  it 
to  you." 

"You  wish  me  to  sign  that?"  said  a  voice  over 
his  shoulder.  "Oh,  how  little  you  understand  us! 
Give  me  the  pen." 

She  took  his  place  and  wrote  in  turn:  — 

"MADEMOISELLE,  —  Monsieur  de  Balloy  as- 
pires to  your  hand.  The  heart  which  he  offers  you 


^Diane  and  Her  Friends 

I,  who  once  believed  in  its  promises,  give  you 
willingly.  It  is  too  black  for  even  me." 

"There,"  she  said,  looking  up  into  his  face,  "is 
what  I  will  sign.  Are  you  satisfied?  " 

Tears  are  not  becoming  to  Dresden  complex- 
ions, but  the  lips  quivered. 

"Madame,"  said  M.  de  Sade,  whose  voice  also 
trembled  a  little,  "if  in  the  three  minutes  which 
remain  to  us  you  would  consent  to  sign  the  other 
also  —  a  mother  will  know  better  than  we  which 
to  deliver." 

"Willingly  —  since  you  are  a  man  of  honor." 

She  rewrote  the  first,  signed  and  folded  both 
and  gave  them  to  him. 

"Madame,"  said  M.  de  Sade,  whose  voice  still 
trembled,  "you  have  left  me  but  one  minute  in 
which  to  do  what  is  more  difficult  than  to  ask  — 
to  thank  you.  Whatever  the  result  of  your"  — 
he  hesitated  a  moment  for  a  word  —  "of  your 
charity — " 

"Oh,  as  to  that  I  am  indifferent." 

"No,  I  do  not  believe  it." 

"Monsieur  de  Sade,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the 
clock,  "the  mauvais  quart-d'heure  de  Rabelais  is 
over." 

_....  296  •••• 


The  Ambassador 

"  You  are  right.  I  renounce  the  effort  —  to 
thank  you  is  useless." 

For  the  first  time  a  faint  smile  came  into  the 
eyes. 

"  Since  you  are  one  of  the  orchestra  chairs,  you 
might  come  to-morrow  night  to  admire  my  new 
costume." 

"No  —  after  realities  one  does  not  seek  illu- 
sions. But — " 

She  raised  her  hand.  "No  promises,  I  beg  of 
you.  One  can  do  everything  with  promises  but 
rely  upon  them."  And  before  he  could  reply  she 
had  vanished  through  the  portieres. 

M.  de  Sade  took  up  his  hat  and  cane,  glanced 
once  more  at  the  desk  by  the  window,  the  open 
book,  the  figurines  on  the  glass  shelves  of  the 
cabinet,  at  the  still  swaying  portieres.  No,  it  was 
not  an  illusion  —  he  held  the  two  notes  in  his 
hand. 

On  the  beach  at  Ostend  M.  de  Sade  had  found 
a  Bath  chair  which  sheltered  him  from  the  fresh 
breeze  off  the  Channel.  Children  were  playing  in 
the  sand,  erecting  bastions  against  the  invading 
sea.  Men  and  women  sat  in  groups  in  the  warm 
sun  or  strolled  along  the  seawall  to  meet  the  in- 
....  297  ..« 


'Diane  and  Her  Friends 

coming  steamer.  But  none  of  these  attracted  his 
attention.  One  by  one  he  took  up  the  letters  on 
his  knee,  reading  them  leisurely  and  consigning 
them  again  to  their  envelopes,  till  one  —  the  one 
long  waited  for  —  remained  unopened.  For  a 
long  time  he  looked  at  the  firm,  clear  handwriting 
of  the  superscription,  like  one  who  listens  to  a 
voice  calling  from  out  the  past.  The  mere  address 
of  a  letter  may  contain  a  message.  Then  he 
broke  the  seal. 

aMv  FRIEND,  —  What  did  you  say  to  Anne 
that  after  you  had  gone  she  should  fling  herself 
into  my  arms  with  such  a  passion  of  weeping  and 
affection?  She  has  gone  with  the  Abbe  d'Arlot  to 
make  a  visit  in  Freyr.  Do  not  worry  about  her. 
At  her  age  hearts  bleed,  but  do  not  break. 

"  Oh,  my  friend  —  No,  I  will  not  attempt  to 
—  my  heart  is  too  full. 

"Of  curiosity  also!  By  what  process  did  you 
extract  from  that  drdlesse  —  Ah,  I  know  what 
you  are  saying  —  that  my  world  never  forgives 
that  other.  It  is  true. 

"  There  was  a  time  when  your  sarcasm,  your 
irony,  your  nature,  oppressed  and  fascinated  me. 
You  produced  in  me  a  kind  of  pain  of  which  you 
....  208  •••• 


The  Ambassador 

alone  possessed  the  secret  —  which  stings  and  yet 
gives  pleasure.  How  is  it  that  you  reverse  the 
order  of  time?  that  years  soften  instead  of  harden- 
ing you?  Would  for  your  sake  —  oh,  and  Anne's 
also  —  that  these  years  — 

"  Forgive  me  —  what  is  written  is  written.  Do 
you  know  what  Raoul  said  to  me  to-day?  'There 
is  more  good  in  De  Sade  than  I  imagined!' 

"DIANE." 

Far  beyond  the  sea  flecked  with  white  sails, 
beyond  the  horizon  banded  with  trails  of  smoke, 
he  saw  the  writer  as  plainly  as  he  saw  the  written. 

"  Would  monsieur,"  said  the  voice  of  a  boat- 
man, "like  to  take  a  sail?  I  have  a  good  boat  and 
the  sea  is  fine." 

"No,  my  friend,"  said  M.  de  Sade;  "at  my  age 
one  prefers  havens  to  horizons." 

The  letter  which  he  mailed  that  evening  con- 
tained a  single  sentence:  — 

"Oh,  woman,  woman!  not  to  tell  me  which 
note  you  made  use  of!" 

THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S    .   A 


A     000026332     7 


